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511 

Essays   and 


Southern ,  Branch 
of  the 

University  of  California 

Los  Angeles 

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STATE  NORMAL  SCHOUl, 
Los  Aogeks,  Cid. 


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ESSAYS  AND  EEVIEWS. 


VOL.  n. 


OY  li 


ESSAYS  AND    REVIEWS. 


EDWIN   P.   WHIPPLE 


IN  TWO   VOLUMES. 

VOL.  n. 


TWELFTH  EDITION. 


BOSTON: 
HOUGHTON,   JIIFFLIN  AND   COJIPANY. 

New  York:    11   East   Seventeenth   Street. 

(Cfe  JJiitierjffitie  (Drcosf,  <ram6riJj0e. 

1885. 


Katered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  185(\ 

Bt  Edwin  P.  Whipple, 

la  ttie  Clerk's  0£Sce  of  the  District  Court  for  the  District  of  Massachusetfa 


CONTENTS. 


?LD   ENGLISH  DKAMATISTS.         ....  7 

MARLOWB 

BEN   JONSON. 

DECKER. 

WEBSTER. 

MARSTON. 

HEYWOOD. 

CHAPMAN. 

MIDDLETON. 

TOURNEUB- 

BEAUMONT  AND    FLETCHER. 

MASSINGER. 

FORD. 

ROMANCE  OF  RASCALITY,  ...  74 

THE  CROAKERS  OF  SOCIETY  AND  LITERATURE,  .  .         66 

BRITISH   CRITICS,  .....  94 

JEFFREY. 

MACKINTOSH. 

SIB  WILLIAM    HAMILTON. 

GIFFORD. 

HAZLITT. 

HUNT. 

RUFUS  CHOATE,              ...  130 

PRESCOTT'S  HISTORIES,       .              .  .              .               ,152 

PRESCOTT'S  CONQUEST  OF    PERU,        .  .                             187 

SHAKSPEARE'S  CRITICS.  ,              .              ,209 


^'■I  C0NTENT^5. 

VERPLANCK. 

SCHLEGEL. 

ULRICI. 

HUDSON. 

RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SIIERIDAN,  ...  250 

HENRY   FIELDING,  .  .  .303 

DANA'S  POEMS  AND  PROSE   WRITINGS,  .  .  358 

APPENDIX,  .  .         "  grS 

THOMAS  HOOD. 

LEIGH   hunt's   poems. 

THOMAS   CARLYLB  AS  A  POLITIGIAM. 

NOVELS   OF  THE   •SASOH. 


YNr57 


ESSAYS   AND   EEYIEWS. 


OLD   ENGLISH   DRAMATISTS.* 

Among  the  English  critics  of  the  present  century,  none 
was  entitled  to  speak  with  more  authority  of  the  Old 
English  Dramatists  than  Charles  Lamb.  His  letters  and 
essays  show  that  his  choicest  hours  were  spent  in  their 
company.  Their  scenes  and  characters  did  not  merely 
pass  before  his  mind  for  review,  but  seemed  to  run  into 
hip  blood  and  imagination,  and  blend  with  his  life.  He 
Wi.;  ihe  representative  of  the  Elizabethan  age  to  the 
nineteenth  century,  and  enforced  the  claims  of  his  stal- 
wart veterans  to  attention  with  a  nicety  of  criticism 
which  had  the  sureness  of  a  fine  instinct.  The  notes  to 
his  Specimens,  quaint,  keen,  and  short,  are  good  exam- 
ples of  penetrating  and  interpretative  criticism.  The 
fine  fusion  in  Lamb's  mind  of  humor  and  imagination 
gives  to  these  meagre   notices  a  peculiar  raciness  ani 

♦  Specimens  of  English  Dramatic  Poets  who  lived  about  the  time  of  Shak 
speare.  With  Notes.  By  Charles  Lamb.  New  York :  Wiley  &  Putnam 
1845.     16mo.  pp.  44S. 

Lectures  on  the  Dramatic  Literature  of  the  Age  of  Elizabeth.  By  William 
Hazlilt.  New  York  :  Wiley  &  Putnam.  16mo.  pp.  216.  —  North  Amencap 
Recieuj,  July,  1846. 


8  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

sweetness,  unlike  most  retrospective  criticism.  Mar- 
lowe, Decker,  Webster,  Massinger,  Ben  Jonson,  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher,  were  not  to  him  mere  names  of  per- 
sons who  once  existed,  but  he  had  a  genial  sense  of  their 
presence,  as  he  bent  lovingly  over  their  time-stained 
pages.  Their  hearts  and  imaginations  spoke  directly  to 
his  own ;  theirs  were  the  old  familiar  faces,  known  from 
his  youth  upwards.  We  conceive  of  him,  at  times,  as 
being  present  at  the  wit  contests  at  the  Mermaid,  and  as 
feeling  the  "  words  of  subtile  flame  "  which  flashed  from 
the  lips  of  Shakspeare,  Jonson,  and  Fletcher.  From  his 
realization  of  them  as  persons,  he  was  less  likely  to  ex- 
aggerate their  merits  as  authors.  He  saw  them  as  they 
were  in  their  lives,  and  judged  them  as  a  kindly  contem- 
porary spirit.  Consequently,  his  volume  of  Specimens 
is  infused  with  the  very  soul  of  the  time;  and  it  may  be 
set  down  as  one  of  the  most  fascinating  of  compilations. 
The  Lectures  of  Hazlitt  on  the  same  period  are  a  good 
counterpart  to  Lamb's  book.  They  display  more  than 
his  usual  strength,  acuteness,  and  animation,  with  less 
than  the  usual  acerbities  of  his  temper.  His  stern,  sharp 
analysis  pierces  and  probes  the  subject  down  through  the 
surface  to  the  centre ;  and  it  is  exercised  in  a  more 
kindly  spirit  than  is  common  with  him.  His  volume  is 
enriched  with  delicious  quotations.  Hazlitt  had  a  pro- 
found appreciation  of  the  elder  dramatists,  though  a  less 
social  feeling  for  them  than  Lamb ;  and  their  character- 
istic excellences  drew  from  him  some  of  his  heartiest 
bursts  of  eloquent  panegyric.  From  his  Lectures  and 
Lamb's  Specimens,  the  general  reader  would  be  likely  to 
gain  a  more  vivid  notion  of  the  intellectual  era  they 
commemorate,  than  from  any  other  sources,  except  the 
originals  themselves. 


OLD    ENGLISH    DRAMATISTS.  9 

The  period  of  time  in  which  those  whom  we  call  the 
Old  English  Dramatists  flourished  runs  from  the  middle 
of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  to  (he  Great  Rebellion,  —  about 
sixty  years.  The  most  brilliant  portion  of  this  period 
was  the  reign  of  James  the  First.  The  drama  com- 
menced with  Buckhurst,  and  died  out  in  Shirley.  In  the 
intervening  time,  we  have  the  names  of  Marlovve,  Shak- 
speare,  Webster,  Decker,  Tourneur,  Heywood,  Middle- 
ton,  Chapman,  Ben  Jonson,  Marston,  Massinger,  Ford, 
and  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, — a  constellation  of  genius, 
which,  in  power  and  variety,  in  imagination,  passion, 
fancy,  wit,  sense,  philosophy,  character,  nature,  is  unex- 
ampled in  the  intellectual  annals  of  the  world.  Bacon, 
Hooker,  Hobbes,  Browne,  Cudworth,  Barrow,  Taylor, 
Napier,  Spenser,  Sidney,  Raleigh,  and,  we  may  add, 
Milton,  may  be  classed  in  the  same  generation.  These 
sixty  years  were  most  emphatically  "  rammed "  with 
intellectual  life.  Great  men,  men  of  originating  minds 
in  different  departments  of  literature  and  science,  men 
eminent  in  action  and  speculation,  men  whose  names 
ring  now  as  sweet  music  in  the  ears  of  all  who  speak 
the  English  tongue,  seemed  to  have  been  crowded  and 
crammed  into  this  era,  "  infinite  riches  in  a  little  room." 
Yet  the  age  was  what  we  would  call  rude  and  coarse  in 
its  manners,  the  language  had  not  been  trained  into  a 
facile  instrument  of  thought,  few  people  were  "  edu- 
cated," in  our  sense  of  the  term,  and  civilization  had  but 
imperfectly  done  its  work  on  the  old  barbarism  ;  and  yet, 
we  doubt  if  external  circumstances  were  ever  more  pro- 
pitious to  the  development  in  a  people  of  the  greatest 
energies  of  intellect  and  passion. 

The  age  to  which  we  refer  was  one  of  vast  intellectua' 
and  moral  act  vity.     That  great  movement  of  the  Euro* 


10  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

pean  mind  at  the  revival  of  letters,  whose  splendid  re- 
sults were  seen  in  the  invention  of  gunpowder  and  print- 
ing, in  the  Reformation,  the  discovery  of  the  American 
continent,  the  overthrow  of  feudalism,  the  new  import- 
ance given  to  the  middle  class,  the  circulation  of  the 
classics,  the  creation  of  national  literatures,  the  assertion 
of  individual  rights,  and  the  general  tendency  to  trans 
fer  the  sceptre  of  influence  from  the  soldier  to  the  thinker, 
was  most  deeply  felt  in  England  during  this  period,  and, 
as  regards  literature,  it  achieved  there  its  mightiest 
triumphs.  When  we  contrast  the  age  with  that  which 
immediately  preceded  it,  we  seem  almost  to  realize  the 
vision  of  Milton,  of  a  "  mighty  and  puissant  nation  rous- 
ing itself,  like  a  strong  man  after  sleep,  and  shaking  his 
invincible  locks."  Everything  was  in  motion.  Great 
events  stimulated  great  passions.  An  ,old  order  of  life, 
with  its  institutions,  its  manners,  its  superstitions,  was 
shaken  to  its  foundations.  New  ideas  and  images  were 
rushing  into  the  national  life  from  a  thousand  sources. 
Greece,  Rome,  Italy,  Spain,  poured  into  the  one  great 
channel  their  blended  streams.  In  the  vast  background 
of  the  national  history,  in  the  manners  and  passions  of 
the  feudal  age,  were  exhaustless  materials  of  heroic 
romance.  What  vv^as  passing  away  in  actual  life  was 
transferred  to  the  imagination,  to  reappear  idealized  in 
poetry.  The  old  times  were  sufficiently  recent  to  be 
ideally  apprehended.  They  lingered  in  knightly  feelings 
and  accomplishments,  and  shaped  the  highest  minds  of 
the  age  in  a  mould  of  heroism.  An  artificial  civilization 
had  neither  tamed  nor  refined  the  energies  of  the  heart. 
There  were  great  diversities  of  culture,  character,  man- 
ners, ranging  from  extreme  coarseness  to  high  delicacy 
and  a  corresponding  external  costume,  which  afforded  the 


OLD    ENGLISH    DRAMATISTS.  11 

poet  a  wide  variety  of  subjects,  from  which  to  select 
striking  individualities  and  picturesque  images.  The 
intellect  of  the  country  was  prying,  inquisitive,  bold,  dib' 
posed  to  innovation,  and  yet  creative.  The  understand 
ing  and  the  imagination  were  both  alive  and  active. 
There  was  a  certain  fulness,  roundness,  and  harmony  of 
mental  development,  in  the  great  men  of  the  time,  which 
gives  a  character  of  majestic  ease  to  their  sturdiest  exer- 
tions of  power.  None  of  their  faculties  acquired  a  dis- 
eased activity  at  the  expense  of  the  rest.  It  was  not  a 
time  to  produce  Humes  or  Schellings  in  philosophy, 
Crabbes  or  Wordsworths  in  poetry.  Taken  altogether, 
it  would  be  difficult  to  find  a  class  of  minds  more  com- 
prehensive, profound,  practical,  and  available.  The  phi- 
losophers were  poets,  and  the  poets  philosophers.  There 
was  a  strong  development  and  happy  equipoise  of  those 
powers  which  relate  to  actual  life,  and  those  which  refer 
to  the  world  of  imagination.  The  literature  of  the  period 
has  body  as  well  as  soul.  Things  were  grasped  in  the 
concrete,  and  so  stated  that  their  substance  and  vital 
spirit  could  not  be  separated.  Great  minds  nursed 
Utopias  in  their  capacious  and  far-darting  imaginations, 
without  being  troubled  with  a  diseased  self-consciousness, 
and  without  whining  about  their  circumstances.  The 
noblest  spirit  of  them  all  was  an  actor  and  manager  of  a 
theatre,  who  excelled  all  his  contemporaries  as  much  in 
prudence  as  in  genius,  and  is  one  of  the  three  profes- 
sional authors  of  Great  Britain  who  obtained  a  compe- 
tence by  literature.=^  The  age  was  not  troubled  with 
"  gifted  spirits,"  "  earnest  minds,"  or  "  poet-souls." 

The  intellectual  and  moral  activity  of  which  we  have 
•:poken,  though  it  was  felt  in  nearly  all  departments  of 

*  Shakspeare,  Pope,  and  Scon. 


l2  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

philosophy,  literature,  and  action,  and  piiduced  in  ah 
magnificent  results,  left  perhaps  its  most  wonderful  traces 
on  the  dramatic  literature  of  the  period.  The  original- 
ity and  power  of  this  as  a  mirror  of  life  cannot  be  con- 
tested, however  much  may  be  said  against  the  rudeness 
and  inartistical  shape  of  the  majority  of  its  products. 
Were  a  man  to  exhaust  the  literatures  of  all  other  times 
and  nations,  he  could  not  be  introduced  to  the  English 
drama  without  being  startled  from  the  complacency  of 
his  settled  tastes,  and  compelled  to  acknowledge  the 
existence  of  a  new  province  of  imagination,  not  implied 
or  foretold  in  any  canons  of  criticism.  The  reading  of 
the  Old  Dramatists  to  such  a  person  would  be  like  gazing 
at  the  earth's  central  fires  through  cracks  in  the  ground 
made  by  an  earthquake.  He  would  see  the  nature  of 
man  revealed  in  its  most  terrible  aspects  of  crime  and 
suffering,  —  all  the  restraints  both  on  depravity  and  vir- 
tue torn  violently  away,  —  and  the  heart  in  its  naked 
reality  laid  open  to  view.  All  the  conventional  propri- 
eties and  linen  decencies  of  language,  he  would  find  con- 
tinually violated.  The  bad  and  the  good,  the  great  and 
the  mean,  wisdom  and  folly,  mirth  and  grief,  he  would  see 
jostling  each  other  in  seemingly  inextricable  confusion. 
He  would  hear  not  only  the  natural  language  of  passion, 
even  to  the  lowest  tone  that  the  heart  half  whispers  to 
itself,  but  that  language  as  modified  by  the  thousand 
diversities  of  character.  Oaths  and  vulgarities  would 
ring  through  his  brain,  just  as  some  exquisite  strain  of 
poetry  had  died  away  on  his  ear.  He  would  stand 
amazed  to  find  so  much  genius  and  impassioned  action 
associated  with  so  much  flatter  and  rant,  and  perhaps 
would  seek  in  the  phrase  *'  irregular  genius  ■   a  conveu 


OLD    ENGLISH    DRAMATISTS,  13 

lent  passage  out  of  astonishment  into  contented  igno- 
rance. 

The  fine  audacity  that  distinguishes  these  writeis  has, 
we  believe,  no  parallel  in  literature.  It  led  often  to 
monstrous  violations  of  taste  and  probability,  but  it  still 
enabled  them  to  reach  heights  and  sound  depths,  which 
equal  powers,  wielded  by  a  less  daring  will,  could  never 
have  achieved.  We  shall  see,  also,  that,  though  plain  to 
coarseness  in  speech,  when  they  undertook  to  represent 
coarse  characters,  they  rarely,  with  the  exception  perhaps 
of  Fletcher,  tampered  with  moral  laws.  A  good,  whole- 
some, English  integrity  generally  underlies  their  vulgari- 
ties. Their  works  would  not  be  so  likely  to  corrupt  the 
mind  as  some  of  Byron's  and  Moore's ;  for,  though  they 
represent  immorality,  they  do  not  inculcate  it.  Their 
robust  strength  of  nature  preserved  them  from  sentiment- 
ality, if  not  from  bombast  and  buffoonery.  Their  minds 
breathed  the  bracing  air  of  their  time,  —  a  time  which 
would  tolerate  what  would  now  be  considered  breaches 
of  decomm,  but  would  not  tolerate  the  smaller  vices  of 
intellect  and  sentiment.  Of  course,  in  these  remarks,  as 
far  as  they  touch  upon  gross  faults,  we  do  not  mean  to 
include  Shakspeare  among  his  brother  dramatists.  He 
excelled  them  all  as  much  in  judgment  as  in  genius. 

The  first  playhouse  built  in  England  was  erected  in 
Blackfriars,  in  the  year  1569  or  1570,  about  twenty 
years  before  Shakspeare  commenced  writing  for  the 
stage.  Previously  to  this  establishment  of  the  "  regular 
drama,"  there  had  been  three  different  species  of  the- 
atrical representations,  —  miracles  or  mysteries,  written 
by  priests  on  religious  subjects,  and  performed  by  them 
on  holydays,  in  which,  as  Campbell  phrases  it,  "  Adam 
nnd  Eve  appeared  naked,  the  devil  displayed  his  borna 


14  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

and  tail,  and  Noah's  wife  boxed  the  patriarch's  ears 
before  entering  the  ark  ; "  —  moralities,  which  sprang 
from  the  mysteries,  and  approached  nearer  to  regular 
plays,  their  characters  being  composed  of  allegorical  per- 
sonifications of  virtues  and  vices  ;  —  and  free  translations 
from  the  classics,  performed  at  the  inns  of  court,  th'^ 
public  seminaries,  and  the  universities. 

In  1574,  the  queen  licensed  a  company  of  actors, 
called  the  Earl  of  Leicester's  Servants,  to  play  through- 
out England,  "  for  the  recreation  of  her  loving  subjects, 
as  for  her  own  solace  and  pleasure  when  she  should 
think  good  to  see  them."  Theatres  rapidly  increased. 
In  1606,  there  were  seven  in  London ;  in  1629,  we 
believe  there  were  sev^enteen.  They  w^ere  opposed,  in 
an  early  stage  of  their  career,  by  the  Puritans  and  the 
graver  counsellors  of  the  sovereign.  In  15S3,  at  the  time 
that  Sir  Philip  Sidney  published  his  Defence  of  Poesy, 
he  could  find  little  in  their  performances  to  approve. 
Though  forbidden,  after  the  year  1574,  to  be  open  on  the 
Sabbath,  the  prohibition  does  not  appear  to  have  been 
effective  during  the  reign  of  Elizabeth.  Secretary  Wal- 
singham  laments  over  the  whole  matter  in  this  wise :  — 
"  The  daily  abuse  of  stage  plays  is  such  an  offence  to 
the  godly,  and  so  great  a  hindrance  to  the  Gospel,  as  the 
Papists  do  exceedingly  rejoice  at  the  blemish  thereof;  for 
every  day  in  the  week  the  players'  bills  are  set  up  in 
mndry  places  in  the  city,  —  some  in  the  name  of  her 
Majesty's  men,  some  of  the  Earl  of  Leicester's,  some 
the  Earl  of  Oxford's,  the  Lord  Admiral's,  and  divers 
others,  so  that,  when  thi  bell  tolls  to  the  lecture,  the 
trumpet  sounds  to  the  stage.  The  playhouses  are  filled 
when  the  churches  are  naked.     It  is  a  woful  sight  to 


OLD    ENGLISH    DRAMATL'/lS.  16 

jee  two  hundred  proud  players  jet  in  their  silks,  when 
five  hundred  poor  people  starve  in  the  streets." 

As  the  taste  for  theatrical  exliibitions  increased,  the 
task  of  providing  the  theatres  with  plays  became  a  pro- 
fession. Most  of  the  precursors,  contemporaries,  and 
successors  of  Shakspeare,  were  young  men  of  education, 
who  came  down  to  the  city  from  the  universities,  to  pro 
vide  themselves  with  a  living  by  whatever  cunning  there 
was  in  their  brain  and  ten  fingers.  Some  became  actors 
as  well  as  writers.  The  remuneration  of  the  dramatist 
was  small.  Poverty  and  dissoluteness  seem  to  have 
characterized  the  pioneers  of  the  drama.  As  the  thea- 
tre was  popular  as  well  as  fashionable,  the  "  ground- 
lings," who  paid  their  sixpences  for  admission,  had  their 
tastes  consulted.  This  accounts,  in  some  degree,  for  the 
rant  and  vulgarity  which  strangely  disfigure  so  many  of 
the  plays.  The  usual  miseries  and  vices  which  charac- 
terize men  of  letters  in  an  unlettered  age,  when  authors 
are  numerous  and  readers  are  few,  distinguish  the  lives 
of  many  of  the  elder  dramatists.  Ben  Jonson,  in  the 
Poetaster,  makes  Tucca  exclaim,  with  a  side  reference  to 
the  poets  of  his  own  day,  that  "  they  are  a  sort  of  poor, 
starved  rascals,  that  are  ever  wrapt  up  in  foul  linen  ;  and 
can  boast  of  nothing  but  a  lean  visage  peering  out  of  a 
seam-rent  suit,  the  very  emblem  of  beggary."  We  sup- 
pose this  was  too  true  a  picture  of  many,  whose  minds 
deserved  a  better  environment  of  flesh  and  raiment. 

Of  those  who  preceded  Shakspeare,  the  best  known 
names  (leaving  Buckhurst  and  Still  out  of  the  list)  are 
Lyly,  Kyd,  Nash,  Greene,  Lodge,  and  Marlowe.  Much 
cannot  be  said  in  praise  of  these,  if  we  except  the  latter, 
Ly'.y  is  full  of  daintiness  and  conceit,  with  sweet  fancy 
and   sentiment  occasionally  thrown  in.      He   translates 


16  ESSA    S    AND   REVIEWS. 

everything  into  quaint  expression.  Thus,  his  End}  n.ion 
professes  that  "  his  thoughts  are  stitched  to  the  stars." 
Another  of  his  characters  looks  forward  to  the  time 
when  "  it  shall  please  the  fertility  of  his  chin  to  be 
delivered  of  a  beard."  Peele  has  melody  of  versification, 
and  a  sort  of  Della-Cruscan  fancy.  His  David  and 
Bethsabe  contains  striking  passages,  as  when  Zephyr  is 
addressed :  — 

"  Then  deck  thee  with  thy  loose,  delightsome  robes, 
And  on  thy  wings  bring  delicate  perfumes  ;  "  — 

or  the  resolution  of  David  :  — 

"  To  joy  her  love  I  'II  build  a  kingly  bower, 
Seated  in  hearing  of  a  hundrea  streams.^^ 

Kyd  wrote  The  Spanish  Tragedy,  a  play  bad  enough  in 
itself,  but  celebrated  from  the  additions  made  to  it  by 
"  eminent  hands."  Its  bombast  was  probably  popular. 
Ben  Jonson  was  one  of  those  engaged  to  write  addi- 
tional scenes ;  but  he  has  ridiculed  the  whole  play  in 
Every  Man  in  his  Humor,  in  the  scene  between  Bobadil 
and  Master  Mathew,  the  town  gull.  Bobadil  says,  "  1 
would  fain  see  all  the  poets  of  these  times  pen  such 
another  play  as  that  was  !  "  Greene's  death  was  more 
tragic  than  anything  he  wrote  or  conceived.  He  is  now 
principally  remembered  for  having  called  Shakspeare 
"  an  upstart  crow." 

But  a  more  potent  spirit  than  any  of  these,  and 
beyond  all  question  the  first  in  rank  among  the  pre- 
cursors of  Shakspeare,  was  Christopher  Marlowe. 
His  "  mighty  line  "  has  been  celebrated  by  Ben  Jon 
son ;  Drayton  finely  ascribes  to  him  "  those  brave  sub- 


OLD    ENGLISH    DRAMATISTS. 


lunary  things  that  the  first  poets  had ;  "  and  according  to 
old  George  Chapman,  — 

"  He  stood 
Up  to  the  chin  in  the  Pierian  flood." 

Marlowe,  indeed,  towers  up  among  his  contemporaries, 
huge,  lawless,  untamable,  the  old  Adam  burning  fiercely 
within  him,  his  frame  of  mind 

"Betokening  valor  and  excess  of  strength," 

and  in  his  strange  compound  of  sublimity  and  rant, 
giving  an  impression  half-way  between  a  thunder-scarred 
Titan  and  an  Alsatian  bully.  From  the  impress  of  per- 
verse and  turbulent  power  that  his  dramas  bear,  and  the 
evident  heartiness  with  which  he  deifies  self-will,  we  may 
well  suppose  that  his  life  diverged  considerably  from  the 
strait  line  of  the  commandments.  The  two  prominent 
features  of  his  biography  are  exceedingly  characteristic. 
In  his  life,  he  labored  under  the  imputation  of  infidelity, 
and  is  said  to  have  blasphemed  the  Holy  Trinity ;  and 
he  died  in  a  tavern  brawl,  in  1593,  or  1594,  about  the 
time  that  Shakspeare  was  writing  Richard  the  Second. 
Campbell  suggests,  that,  had  Marlowe  lived,  Shakspeare 
might  have  had  something  like  a  competitor.  This  we 
think  is  too  high  praise ;  for  Marlowe,  with  all  his  fire 
and  fancy,  is  limited  in  his  range  of  character,  and 
stamps  the  image  of  himself  on  all  his  striking  deline- 
ations. He  is  intense,  but  narrow.  The  central  princi- 
ple of  his  mind  was  self-will,  and  this  is  the  bond  which 
binds  together  his  strangely  huddled  faculties.  Of  all 
English  poets,  he  most  reminds  us  of  Byron ;  ruder,  it 
may  be,  but  at  the  same  time  more  colossal  in  his  pro- 
portions.    He  is  a  glorious  old  heathen,  "  large  in  heart 

^"•OL.    II.  2 


18  liSSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

and  brain," — a  fiery  and  fickle  Goth,  on  whose  rough 
an®,  savage  energies  a  classical  culture  has  been  piled, 
tossed  among  the  taverns,  and  theatres,  and  swelling 
spirits  of  London,  to  gratify  the  demands  of  his  senses 
in  some  other  way  than  by  acts  of  brilliant  pillage.  In 
his  .ustiness,  his  absence  of  all  weak  emotions,  his  fierce 
delight  in  the  mere  feeling  of  self,  in  the  heedlessness 
with  which  he  heaps  together  rubbish  and  diamonds, 
and  in  the  frequent  "  starts  and  strange  fxr-flights  of  his 
imagination,"  he  is  the  model  of  irregular  genius.  His 
mind,  in  its  imperiousness,  disregarded  by  instinct  the 
natural  relations  of  things,  forced  objects  into  the  form 
of  his  individual  passions,  and  lifted  his  vices  into  a 
kind  of  Satanic  dignity,  by  exaggerating  them  into 
shapes  colossal.  His  imagination,  hot,  swift,  impatient 
of  control,  pervaded  by  the  fiery  essence  of  his  blood, 
and  giving  wings  to  the  most  reckless  desires,  riots  in  the 
maddest  visions  of  strength  and  pride.  Of  all  writers, 
he  seems  to  feel  the  heartiest  joy  in  the  mere  exercise 
of  power,  regardless  of  all  the  restraints  which  make 
power  beneficent.  His  most  truculent  characters,  Tam- 
burlaine,  Eleazar,  Barabbas,  Faustus,  all  have  blazoned 
on  their  brows,  "  Kit  Marlowe,  his  mark."  There  is  no 
mistaking  his  heaven-defying  energy,  nor  his  Ishmael 
itish  strut  and  swagger.  His  soul  tears  its  way  through 
his  verse,  "  tameless,  and  swift,  and  proud,"  scorning  al 
impediments,  and  ever  ambitious  to  go 

"  Right  forward,  like  the  lightning 
And  the  cannon-ball,  opening,  with  murderous  crash, 
Its  way  to  blast  and  ruin." 

From  this  headlong  haste  come  his  bombast  and  extrav- 
agance, "  his  lust  of  power,  his  hunger  and  thirst  afte 


OLD   ENGLISH    DRAMATISTS.  19 

anrighteousness,  his  glow  of  imaginatior.  unhallowed 
save  by  its  own  energies."  Whether  his  muse  cleave 
the  upper  air,  or  draggle  in  the  dirt,  it  ever  gives  unity 
of  impression.  In  Lust's  Dominion,  or  the  Lascivious 
Queen,  the  rapid  movement  of  the  man's  mind  is  very 
characteristic, —  rattling  recklessly  on  through  scenes  of 
murder,  cruelty,  and  lust,  —  now  striking  off  "  burning 
atoms  "  of  thought,  and  now  merely  infusing  fire  into 
fustian,  —  his  faculties  at  times  stretched  on  the  rack, 
writhing  in  fearful  contortions,  and  smiting  the  ear  with 
the  wild  screams  of  a  tortured  brain, — but  still  marching 
furiously  forward,  daring  everything,  and  playing  out 
the  game  of  tragedy  freely  and  fearlessly.  In  this  play 
he  somewhat  reminds  us  of  the  actor  who  blacked  him- 
self all  over  when  he  performed  Othello,  and  called  that 
"  going  thoroughly  into  the  part."  Marlowe  scatters 
lust  and  crime  about  in  such  careless  profusion,  that 
they  cease  to  excite  horror.  His  Muse  must  too  often 
have  appeared  to  him  in  some  such  form  as  the  hideous 
phantom  in  Clarence's  dream,  — 

"  A  shadow  like  an  angel,  with  bright  hair 
Dabbled  in  blood." 

But  amids:  all  his  spasmodic  and  braggart  lines  in  the 
vein  of  King  Cambyses,  his  mind  continually  gives  evi- 
dence of  possessing  pathos,  sweetness,  and  true  power. 
Imaginations  of  the  greatest  beauty  and  majesty  will 
sometimes  rush  up,  like  rockets,  from  the  level  extrava- 
gance of  his  most  ranting  plays,  "  streaking  the  darkness 
radiantly;"  —  as  in  that  celebrated  passage  in  Tam- 
ourlaine,  which  Shakspeare  condescended  to  ridicule 
through  the  lips  of  Ancient  Pistol :  — 


'*0  TjsSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

*  Enter  Tamburlaine,  drawn  in  his  chariot  by  Trehizon  and  Soria, 
with  bits  in  their  mouths,  reins  in  his  left  hand,  in  his  right  hand  a 
whip,  with  which  he  scourgeth  them. 

"  Tamh.    Holla,  ye  pampered  jades  of  Asia! 
What,  can  ye  draw  but  twenty  miles  a  day, 
And  have  so  proud  a  chariot  at  your  heels,  ^ 

And  such  a  coachman  as  great  Tamburlaine  ? 
But  from  Asphaltis,  where  I  conquered  you, 
To  Byron  here,  where  thus  I  honor  you  ? 
The  horse  that  guide  the  golden  eye  of  heaven. 
And  bloiD  the  morning  from  their  nostrils. 
Making  their  fiery  gate  above  the  glades. 
Are  not  so  honored  in  their  governor 
As  you,  ye  slaves,  in  mighty  Tamburlaine." 

From  the  same  play,  which  has  passed  into  a  syno- 
nynie  of  bombast  and  "  midsummer  madness,"  but  which 
contains  lines  that  Beaumont  and  Milton  have  not  hesi- 
tated to  appropriate,  Leigh  Hunt  extracts  the  following 
exquisite  passage :  — 

"  If  all  the  pens  that  ever  poet  held 
Had  fed  the  feeling  of  their  master's  thoughts, 
And  every  sweetness  that  inspired  their  hearts. 
And  minds,  and  muses,  on  admired  themes  ; 
If  all  the  heavenly  quintessence  they  still 
From  their  immortal  flowers  of  poesy. 
Wherein,  as  in  a  mirror,  we  perceive 
The  highest  reaches  of  a  human  wit ; 
If  these  had  made  one  poem's  period, 
And  all  combined  in  beauty's  worthiness  ; 
Yet  shoxdd  there  hover  in  their  restless  heads 
One  thought,  one  grace,  one  wonder,  at  the  best. 
Which  into  words  no  virtue  can  digest." 

The  description  of  Tamburlaine's  person  has  a  rude 
Tilanic  grandeur,  which  still  tells  on  the  ear  and  brain 
as  in  the  lines,  — 


OLD   ENGLISH    DRAJLATISTS.  21 

'•  Of  Stature  tall,  and  straightly  fashioned  ; 
Like  his  desire,  lift  upwards  and  divine, 
So  large  of  limb,  his  joints  so  strongly  knit, 
Such  breadth  of  shoulders  as  might  mainly  bear 
Old  Atlas'  burthen." 

ji  the  whole  description,  Marlowe's  predominating 
desire  to  accumulate  round  his  characters  images  of 
strength  and  majesty,  and  to  dwarf  all  other  men  in 
comparison,  is  finely  exemplified.     Tamburlaine  is 

"  Pale  of  complexion,  wrought  in  him  with  passion  ;" 

his  eyes  are  "  piercing  instruments  of  sight," 

"  Whose  fiery  citcles  bear  encompassed 
A  heavea  of  heavenly  bodies  in  their  spheres." 

The  breath  of  heaven  "  delights  "  to  play  with  his  curls 
of  "amber  hair;  "  his  bent  brows  "figure  death,"  their 
smoothness,  "  amity  and  life ;  "  his  "  kindled  wrath  can 
only  be  quenched  in  blood ;  "  and  he  is  "  in  every  part 
proportioned  like  a  man  "  who  has  the  right  divine  to 
subdue  the  world.  We  are  astonished  that  Carlyle  has 
not  yet  puffed  Tamburlaine  as  made  after  Marlowe's 
image.  The  Scythian  shepherd  deserves  a  proud  place 
among  his  heroes. 

Most  of  Marlowe's  powerful  scenes  are  well  Imown. 
His  best  plays  are  The  Rich  Jew  of  Malta;  Edward 
the  Second,  the  "  reluctant  pangs  of  whose  abdicatmg 
royalty,"  says  Lamb,  "  furnished  hints  which  Shakspeare 
scarce  improved  in  Richard  the  Second ;  "  and  the  Trag- 
ical History  of  the  Life  and  Death  of  Dr.  Faustus,  which 
is  his  greatest  and  most  characteristic  performance,  sadly 
disfigured,  however,  by  bathos  and  buffoonery,  ajid  in» 


29.  ESSAYS    AND   REVIEWS 

spired  in  part  by  the  very  imp  of  mischief.  Barabbaa, 
the  Jew,  has  been  mentioned  as  suggesting  Shylock. 
The  character,  however,  has  little  resemblance  to  Shak- 
speare's  Jew.  It  is  Marlowe  all  over.  In  the  celebrated 
scene  where  Barabbas  gloats  over  his  vast  wealth,  his 
imagination  glows  like  his  own  "  fiery  opals."  The 
death-scene  in  Edward  the  Second,  according  to  Lamb, 
"  moves  pity  and  terror  beyond  any  scene,  ancient  or 
modern,"  with  which  he  is  acquainted.  We  think  this 
praise  altogether  too  extravagant,  affecting  as  the  scene 
undoubtedly  is. 

We  take  leave  of  Marlowe  with  an  extract  from  the 
last  scene  in  Faustus.  The  verse  has  the  sinewy  vigor 
and  sonorous  chime  which  generally  distinguish  his 
style.  It  is,  however,  intensified  by  the  agony  «.ue 
might  feel  on  viewing  his  own  name  traced  in  flan'  113, 
characters  on  the  black  rolls  of  the  damned. 

"  Faustus  alone.  — The  clock  strikes  eleven. 

"  Faust.     O  Faustus, 
Now  hast  thou  but  one  bare  hour  to  live, 
And  then  thou  must  be  damned  perpetually. 
Stand  still,  you  ever-moving  spheres  of  heaven, 
That  time  may  cease,  and  midnight  never  come. 
Fair  Nature's  eye,  rise,  rise  again,  and  make 
Perpetual  day:  or  let  this  hour  be  but 
A  year,  a  month,  a  week,  a  natural  day. 
That  Faustus  may  repent  and  sa  re  his  soul. 
O  lente,  lente  currite,  noclis  equi ! 
The  stars  move  still,  time  runs,  the  clock  ■«  ill  strike 
The  devil  will  come,  and  Faustus  must  be  damned. 
O,  I  will  leap  to  heaven  !     Who  pulls  me  down  ? 
See  where  Christ's  blood  streams  in  the  firmament: 
One  drop  of  blood  will  save  me  ;  O,  my  Christ, 
Rend  not  my  heart  for  naming  of  my  Christ ! 
Vel  will  I  call  on  him.     O  spare  me,  Lucifer! 


OLD   ENGLISH    DRAMATISTS.  23 

Where  is  it  now  ?  't  is  gone ! 

And  see,  a  threatening  arm,  and  angry  brow ! 

Mountains  and  hills,  come,  come,  and  fall  on  me, 

And  hide  me  from  the  heavy  wrath  of  heaven. 

No?  then  I  will  headlong  run  into  the  earth  • 

Gape,  earth.     O  no,  it  will  not  harbor  me. 

You  stars  that  reigned  at  my  nativity. 

Whose  influence  have  allotted  death  and  hell, 

Now  draw  up  Faustus  like  a  foggy  mist 

Into  the  entrails  of  yon  laboring  cloud  ; 

That  when  you  vomit  forth  into  the  air, 

My  limbs  may  issue  from  your  smoky  mouths, 

But  let  my  soul  mount,  and  ascend  to  heaven. 

[The  watch  strikes. '\ 
O  half  the  hour  is  past !  'twill  all  be  past  anon. 
O  if  my  soul  must  suffer  for  my  sin, 
Lnpose  some  end  to  my  incessant  pain ! 
Let  Faustus  live  in  hell  a  thousand  years, 
A  hundred  thousand,  and  at  the  last  be  saved: 
No  end  is  limited  to  damned  souls. 
Why  wert  thou  not  a  creature  wanting  soul  ? 
Or  why  is  this  immortal  that  thou  hast? 
O  Pythagoras,  Metempsychosis,  were  that  true. 
This  soul  should  fly  from  me,  and  I  be  changed 
Into  some  brutish  beast. 
All  beasts  are  happy,  for  when  they  die. 
Their  souls  are  soon  dissolved  in  elements  ; 
But  mine  must  live  still  to  be  plagued  in  hell. 
Curst  be  the  parents  that  engendered  me : 
No,  Faustus,  curse  thyself,  curse  Lucifer, 
That  hath  deprived  thee  of  the  joys  of  heaven. 

[The  clock  strikes  twelve.] 
It  strikes,  it  strikes  ;  now,  body,  turn  to  air, 
Or  Lucifer  will  bear  thee  quick  to  hell. 
O  soul,  be  changed  into  small  water-drops. 
And  fall  into  the  ocean  ;  ne'er  be  found. 

[Thunder,  and  enter  the  Devil*.] 

0  mercy.  Heaven,  look  not  so  fierce  on  me ! 
Adders  and  serpents,  let  me  breathe  a  while . 
Ugly  hell,  gape  not,  come  not,  Lucifer; 

1  '11  burn  my  books :  O  MephistophUis ! " 


24  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

It  is  supposed  that  Marlowe  wrote  the  principal  por- 
tion of  the  old  plays  which  Shakspearc  altered  into  the 
Second  and  Third  Parts  of  Henry  the  Sixth.  Malone 
on  comparing  the  latter  with  their  originals,  found  that 
1771  lines  had  been  taken  without  alteration,  2373 
altered,  and  only  1S99  had  been  added.  Greene,  in  his 
Groat'sworth  of  Wit,  published  in  1592,  addressing,  it  is 
conjectured,  Marlowe,  exclaims,  —  "  Yes,  trust  them  not 
[the  players],  for  there  is  an  upstart  crow,  beautified  with 
^ur  feathers,  that,  with  a  tiger's  heart  wrapped  in  a  play- 
er's hide,  supposes  he  is  as  well  able  to  bombast  out 
I  blank  verse  as  any  of  you,  and,  being  an  absolute 
Johannes  factotum,  is,  in  his  conceit,  the  only  Shake- 
scene  in  a  country." 

Next  to  Shakspeare,  there  is  no  dramatist  of  the  period 
whose  name  is  so  familiar  to  English  ears  as  that  of  Ben 
JoNSON,  though  he  is  probably  less  read  than  either  Mas- 
singer  or  Fletcher.  The  associations  connected  with  his 
name  have  contributed  towards  keeping  it  alive,  for  he 
is,  in  most  points  of  his  character,  the  very  embodiment 
of  England,  a  veritable,  indubitable  John  Bull.  The 
base  of  his  character  is  sound,  strong,  weighty  sense, 
with  that  infusion  of  insular  prejudice  which  keeps  every 
true  Englishman  from  being  a  cosmopolite,  either  in 
literature,  arts,  government,  or  manners.  He  has  also 
that  ingrained  coarseness,  which,  in  the  Anglo-Saxon 
mind,  often  coexists  with  the  sturdiest  morality,  and, 
though  it  disconnects  virtue  from  delicacy,  prevents  vice 
from  allying  itself  with  refinement.  In  reading  Jonson 
we  contirmally  fall  upon  expressions  which  "  no  young 
lady  ought  to  read  ;  "  but  there  is  nothing  which  tends 
to  corrupt  the  morals,  as  well  as  to  vulgarize  the  speech. 
Virtue  and  vice,  honesty  and  baseness,  indulge  in  no 


OLD    ENGLISH    DRAMATISTS.  25 

coquetry  in  his  representations.  We  are  acquainted 
with  no  dramatist  whose  characters,  bad  and  good,  are 
better  adapted  to  excite  in  us  the  same  feelings  that  we 
should  experience,  if  we  met  them  in  actual  life. 

With  this  basis  of  sound  English  sense,  Jonson  has 
fancy,  humor,  satire,  learning,  a  large  knowledge  of  men 
and  motives,  and  a  remarkable  command  of  language, 
sportive,  scornful,  fanciful,  and  impassioned.  One  of 
the  fixed  facts  in  English  literature,  he  is  too  strongly 
rooted  ever  to  be  upset.  He  stands  out  from  all  his 
contemporaries,  original,  peculiar,  leaning  on  none  for 
aid,  and  to  be  tried  by  his  own  merits  alone.  Had  his 
imagination  been  as  sensitive  as  that  of  many  of  his 
contemporaries,  or  his  self-love  less,  he  would  probably 
have  fallen  into  their  conscious  or  unconscious  imitation 
of  Shakspeare  ;  but,  as  it  was,  he  remained  satisfied 
with  himself  to  the  last,  delving  in  his  own  mine.  His 
"  mountain  belly  and  his  rocky  face  "  are  good  symbols 
of  his  hard,  sharp,  decided,  substantial,  and  arrogant 
mind.  His  life  and  writings  both  give  evidence  of  great 
vitality  and  force  of  character.  Composition  must  have 
been  with  him  a  manual  labor,  for  he  writes  with  all  his 
might.  The  weaknesses  of  his  nature,  his  perversity, 
his  bluff  way  of  bragging  of  his  own  achievements,  his 
vanity,  his  domineering  egotism,  his  love  of  strong  food, 
his  deep  potations,  and  the  heartiness,  good-will,  and 
.latent  sense  of  justice,  which  underlie  all,  are  thoroughly 
English,  and  make  him  as  familiar  to  the  imagination  as 
a  present  existence.  We  speak  of  Shakspeare's  mind, 
but  Jonson  starts  up  always  in  bodily  proportions.  He 
seems  some  boon  companion,  Avhom  we  have  seen  in  a 
preexistent  state.  Shakspeare's  creations,  from  Hamlet 
to  Falstaff,  are  more  real  to  us  than  ShaksDeare  k"m 


26  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

self;  but  we  have  a  more  intense  conception  of  Ji>nson 
than  we  have  of  any  of  his  characters,  not  even  excepting 
Bobadil  and  Sir  Epicure  Mammon.  His  life  was  com- 
mensurate with  the  whole  generation  of  great  poets  to 
which  he  belonged.  He  survived  Shakspeare  twentv- 
one  years.  His  biography  is  better  known  than  that  of 
any  of  his  contemporaries. 

Jonson's  life  was  checkered  by  many  vicissitudes. 
He  was  born  in  the  city  of  Westminster,  in  the  year 
1574.  His  father  went  out  of  the  world  about  a  month 
after  our  poet  came  into  it ;  and  his  worthy  mother 
shortly  after  married  a  master-bricklayer.  By  the  aid 
of  some  friend,  whose  name  is  unknown,  he  was  sent  to 
Westminster  school,  and  transferred  thence  to  Cam- 
bridge university.  After  staying  there  a  short  time,  his 
resources  failed  him,  and  he  returned  home  to  work  at 
the  trade  of  his  father-in-law.  This  occupation,  how- 
ever, he  could  not  long  endure,  and  he  went  as  a  volun- 
teer in  the  army  serving  in  Flanders.  He  distinguished 
himself  by  his  valor,  and  prided  himself  no  little  on  hav- 
ing conquered  and  killed  an  enemy,  in  the  view  of  both 
armies,  in  single  combat.  The  trade  of  arms,  however, 
does  not  appear  to  have  been  attended  in  his  case  with 
any  lucrative  results,  and  he  returned  home  at  the  end 
of  one  or  two  campaigns.  Shortly  after,  at  about  the 
age  of  nineteen,  he  went  upon  the  stage,  as  actor  and 
journeyman  writer ;  but  for  four  years  seems  to  have 
done  little  more  than  make  additions  to  old  plays,  or 
furnish  scenes  to  other  dramatists.  In  1596,  hov/ever, 
when  he  was  only  twenty-two  years  old,  his  Every 
Man  in  his  Humor,  the  most  generally  popular  of 
his  plays,  was  produced.  Previously  to  this,  he  had 
killed  a  brother-player  in  a  duel,  and  came  near  being 


OLr    ENGLISH    DF  AMATISTS.  2T 

oanged  for  it;  had  turned  Roman  Catholic,  and  been 
suspected  of  a  share  in  a  Popish  conspiracy ;  and  had 
got  marriod ;  three  incidents  in  the  life  of  a  young  man 
just  at  maturity,  which  show  quite  an  extraordinary 
aptitude  for  affairs. 

The  scene  of  Every  Man  in  his  Humor,  as  originalljf 
written,  was  laid  in  Italy.  It  was  popular  from  the  first. 
In  1598,  Jonson  became  acquainted  with  Shakspeare, 
and  through  his  influence  was  enabled  to  bring  out  his 
play,  as  now  remodelled  with  English  names,  at  the 
Blackfriars  theatre.  Shakspeare  is  supposed  to  have 
acted  the  part  of  the  elder  Knowell  in  this  comedy.  In 
1599,  Jonson  brought  out  Every  Man  out  of  his  Humor, 
the  first  representation  of  which  was  attended  by  Queen 
Elizabeth.  In  the  epilogue  to  the  play,  hyperbole  is 
racked  to  find  terms  of  adoring  admiration  for  the  queen. 
Jonson,  in  his  conversations  with  Drummond,  did  not 
hesitate  to  give  his  real  opinion  about  the  haughty 
Tudor's  susceptibility  to  flattery.  In  this  play  the  author 
shows  that  contempt  for  public  opinion  which  breaks  out 
in  so  many  of  his  prefaces.  He  calls  the  public  "  that 
inany-mouthed,  vulgar  dog."  Cynthia's  Revels  was 
acted  in  1600,  and  excited  much  opposition.  Decker 
and  Marston  we^e  prominent  among  those  it  offended ; 
and  in  consequence,  Jonson's  next  play,  The  Poetaster, 
was  especially  devoted  to  satirizing  them  and  exalting 
himself.  To  any  one  who  desires  to  knovv  Jonsca's 
sway  over  the  vocabulary  of  scorn,  contempt,  hatred,  and 
invective,  we  would  commend  this  comedy.  Decker  and 
Marston  are  introduced  under  the  names  of  Crispinus 
and  Demetrius,  and  remorselessly  ridiculed.  The  opin- 
'ons  they  are  made  to  express  of  Jonson  himself  are 
exceedingly  racy,  and  enable  us  to  judge  what  were  the 


28  nSSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

feelings  experienced  towards  him  by  some  of  his  contem- 
poraries.  Thus,  Demetrius  (Marston)  says, — "Horace' 
he  is  a  mere  sponge ;  nothing  but  humors  and  observa 
tion ;  he  goes  up  and  down  sucking  from  every  society, 
and  when  he  comes  home  squeezes  himself  dry  again." 
Another  calls  him  "  a  sharp,  thorny-toothed,  satirical 
rascal ;"  one  that  would  "  sooner  lose  his  best  friend  than 
his  least  jest ;"  a  thing  "  all  dog  and  scorpion,  that  carries 
poison  in  his  teeth,  and  a  sting  in  his  tail."  In  the 
arraignment,  Decker  is  called  poetaster  and  plagiary; 
Marston,  play-dresser  and  plagiary ;  and  they  are 
accused  of  taxing  Jonson  falsely  of  *'  self-love,  arrogance, 
impudence,  railing,  filching  by  translation," .  &c.,  for  a 
base  and  envious  purpose.  In  their  sentence  we  are 
favored  with  a  view  of  the  "  local  habitations  "  of  the 
poets  of  the  day ;  for  they  are  forbidden  to  defame  our 
poet  "  at  booksellers'  stalls,  in  taverns,  two-penny  rooms, 
tyring-houses,  noblemens'  buttresses,  and  puisne's  cham- 
bers." The  enemies  of  Jonson  are  summed  up  as  "  fools 
or  jerking  pedants,"  "  buffoon,  barking  wits,"  tickling 
"  base,  vulgar  ears,"  with  "  beggarly  and  barren  trash." 
In  the  "  Apologetical  Dialogue,"  at  the  end  of  the  play, 
all  phrases  of  scorn  and  contempt  are  exhausted  to  covel 
his  opponents  with  infamy.  He  speaks  of  his  own 
works  as 

"  Things  that  were  born  when  none  hut  the  still  night 
And  his  dumb  candle  saw  his  pinching  throes ;" 

aid  he  closes  with  a  lofty  expression  of  his  own  studious 
habits  and  devotion  to  letters  :  — 

"  I  that  spend  half  my  nights  and  all  my  days 
Here  in  a  cell,  to  get  a  dark,  pale  face 
To  come  forth  with  the  ivy  or  tlie  bays. 
And  in  this  age  can  hope  no  other  grace,  — 
Lsawe  me !  there 's  something  come  into  my  thought 


OLD    ENGLISH    DRAMATISTS.  29 

That  must  and  shall  be  sung'  high  and  aloof, 

Safe  from  the  icolf's  black  Jaw  and  the  dull  ass's  hoof." 

There  is  in  this  play  a  good  representation  given  ^A 
the  different  feelings  with  which  different  classes  at  that 
day  regarded  poetry.  Thus,  one  of  the  characters  calls 
Homer  "  a  poor  blind  rhyming  rascal,  that  lived  ob- 
scurely up  and  down  in  booths  and  tap-houses,  and 
scarce  ever  made  a  good  meal  in  his  sleep,  the  *^=* 
hungry  beggar;"  while  Jonson,  speaking  through  the 
lips  of  another,  exclaims, 

"  Would  men  but  learn  to  distinguish  spirits, 
And  set  true  difference  'twixt  those  jaded  wits 
That  run  a  broken  pace  for  common  hire, 
And  the  high  raptures  of  a  happy  Muse, 
Borne  on  the  icings  of  her  immortal  thought, 
That  kicks  at  earth  with  a  disdainful  heel, 
And  beats  at  heaven's  gates  with  her  bright  hoofs, 
They  would  not  then,  with  such  distorted  faces 
And  desperate  censures,  slab  at  Poesy  ; 
They  would  admire  bright  knowledge,  and  their  minds 
Should  ne'er  descend  on  so  unworthy  objects 
As  gold,  or  titles." 

The  character  of  Virgil,  in  this  play,  has  been  conjec- 
tured to  refer  to  Shakspeare,  and  Horace's  (Jonson's 
encomium  on  him  is  characteristic  and  true. 

"  Hot.  His  learning  savors  not  the  school-like  gloss, 
That  most  consists  in  echoing  words  and  terms, 
And  soonest  wins  a  man  an  empty  name  ; 
Nor  any  long,  or  far-fetched  circumstance, 
Wrapt  in  the  curious  general'ties  of  arts  ; 
But  a  direct  and  analytic  sum 
Of  all  the  worth  and  nrst  effects  of  arts. 
And  for  his  poesy,  't  is  so  rammed  with  life. 
That  it  shall  gather  strength  of  life,  with  being. 
And  shall  live  hjreafti=c  more  admired  than  now." 

Lamb,  Vol.  ii.,  p.  68. 


30  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

The  Poetaster  made  Jonson  many  enemies,  as  well  it 
might.  Decker  replied  in  The  Satiromastrix,  or  the 
Untrussi.'^g  of  a  Humorous  Poet.  It  contains  some 
beautiful  poetry,  and  some  capital  hits.  One  of  the 
females  in  the  play  says,  "  That  same  Jonson  has  a  most 
ungodly  face,  by  my  fan  ;  it  looks  for  all  the  world  like 
a  rotten  russet  apple,  when  't  is  bruised.  It 's  better  than 
a  spoonful  of  cinnamon-water  next  my  heart,  for  me  to 
hear  him  speak;  he  sounds  it  so  i'  th'  nose; — and  oh, 
to  see  his  face  make  faces,  when  he  reads  songs  and 
sonnets! "  Again,  —  "  Look  at  his  par-boiled  face,  look, 
—  his  face  puncht  full  of  eyelet  holes,  like  the  cover  of  a 
warming-pan."  This  is  characteristic,  and  gives  proba- 
bly as  true  a  representation  of  the  personal  appearance  of 
Jonson,  as  the  "  dark,  pale  face  "  he  has  himself  cele- 
brated. 

In  1603,  Jonson  produced  his  weighty  tragedy  of 
Sejanus,  a  noble  piece  of  work,  full  of  learning,  ingenuity, 
and  force  of  mind  in  wielding  bulky  materials.  It  was 
brought  out  at  the  Globe  theatre,  with  the  greatest  poet 
the  world  ever  saw  acting  in  one  of  the  inferior  characters. 
It  is  difficult  to  conceive  that  a  man  who  had  at  this  time 
produced  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  As  You  Like  it, 
Hamlet,  and  Henry  Fourth,  should  play  in  one  of  Ben 
Jonson's  tragedies.  Jonson  and  Shakspeare  seem  at  this 
period  to  have  been  at  the  height  of  their  friendship. 
The  "  wit-contests  "  at  the  Mermaid  Tavern  date  from 
the  appearance  of  Sejanus.  Fuller,  speaking  of  these, 
compares  Shakspeare  to  an  English  man-of-war,  and 
Jonson  to  a  Spanish  great  galleon.  "  Master  Jonson 
was  built  far  higher  in  learning;  solid,  but  slow  in  his 
performance :  Shakspeare,  lesser  in  bulk,  but  lighter  in 
sailing,  ould  turn  with  all  tides,  and  take  advantage  0/ 


OLD    ENGLISH    DRAMATISTS.  31 

all  wiads,  by  the  quickness  of  his  wit  and  imention." 
Fuller  speaks  further  of  Ben,  as  a  man  whose  parts 
"were  not  so  ready  to  run  of  themselves  as  able  to 
answer  the  spur ;  so  tliat  it  may  be  truly  said  of  him, 
that  he  had  an  elabora'e  wit,  wrought  out  by  his  own 
industry."  Those  must  have  been  great  meetings  where 
Shakspeare,  Jonson,  Beaumont,  Fletcher,  Raleigh,  Sel- 
den,  Camden,  and  Donne,  were  among  the  party.  Beau- 
mont, in  a  letter  to  Ben,  gives  his  testimony  to  the 
brilliancy  of  the  conversation,  when  he  exclaims, — 

"  What  things  have  we  seen 
Done  at  the  Mermaid  !  heard  words  that  have  been 
So  nimble,  and  so  full  of  subtle  flame, 
As  if  that  every  one,  from  whom  they  came, 
Had  put  his  whole  wit  in  a  jest." 

Jonson  seems  to  have  held  anger  but  a  short  time,  and 
was  far  from  being  malignant.  On  the  accession  of 
James,  he  chose  his  old  opponent  Decker  to  be  his  associ- 
ate in  designing  an  entertainment  for  the  reception  of  the 
king,  —  a  metrical  job  given  to  him  by  the  court  and 
city ;  and  was  connected,  also,  shortly  after,  with  Mars- 
ton  and  Chapman,  in  writing  Eastward  Hoe,  a  comedy 
which  came  near  subjecting  all  three  to  the  grossest 
mdio-nities,  on  account  of  some  satire  it  contained  against 
the  Scotch.  They  were  all  imprisoned  for  a  short  time, 
and  it  was  rumored  that  their  ears,  and  noses  were  to  be 
slit.  Jonson's  mother,  who  appears  to  have  been  a 
strong-minded  woman,  told  her  son,  after  he  had  been 
liberated,  that  she  intended  to  have  mixed  sonje  "  strong 
and  lusty  poison  in  his  drink,^'  sooner  than  have  him 
thus  disgraced.  This  little  event  in  his  life  does  not 
aopear  to  have  injured  him  with  King  James,  who  was 
his  patrol    t  .rough  life.     Betweea  the  yrjars   1605  and 


32  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

IGU,  he  wrote  his  three  comedies,  Volpone,  Epicoene,  and 
The  Alchemist,  and  also  his  tragedy  of  Catiline,  togethel 
with  a  number  of  masques  represented  at  court.  These 
last  contain  much  of  his  most  delicate  and  fanciful  poetry, 
and  many  of  his  most  bewitching  lyrics.  About  the  year 
1616,  he  succeeded  Daniel  as  poet  laureate,  and  probably 
wrote  his  noble  poetical  tribute  to  Shakspeare  soon  after- 
wards. In  the  summer  of  1618,  he  set  out  on  his  cele- 
brated pedestrian  journey  to  Scotland.  After  some 
hospitable  delays,  he  arrived  at  the  house  of  Drummond 
of  Hawthornden,  in  April,  1619.  He  talked  rather 
recklessly  to  his  brother-poet,  and  probably  swaggered 
considerably  on  his  reputation.  The  record  left  by  his 
host  of  this  feee  and  easy  conversation  is  honorable  to 
neither,  and  has  irretrievably  damned  Drummond.  His 
name,  which  might  have  been  preserved  as  an  agree- 
able bewailer  of  imaginary  love  miseries,  has  become 
associated  with  treachery  and  inhospitality. 

In  1625,  King  James  died.  From  this  period,  Jonson's 
life  assumes  its  darker  aspects.  Poverty,  sickness,  and 
palsy,  came  upon  him.  In  1629,  he  had  sufficiently 
recovered  to  produce  his  play  of  The  New  Inn.  This 
was  unsuccessful,  though  it  contains  some  of  his  best 
scenes,  and  the  character  of  Lovel  has  sweet  and  noble 
traits,  not  common  to  Jonson's  heroes.  Level's  definition 
of  true  love  in  this  play  is  Platonic  in  its  fineness  and 
purity.  The  following  lines,  in  which  he  speaks  of  the 
power  of  the  passion  on  himself,  have  a  winning  beauty 
uf  expression  which  is  exquisite. 

"  Lev.  There  is  no  life  on  earth,  but  being  in  hve  I 
There  are  no  studies,  no  delights,  no  business, 
No  intercourse,  or  trade  of  sense,  or  soul, 
But  what  is  love  !     I  was  the  laziest  creature, 


OLD    ENGLISH    DRAMATISTS.  33 

I'he  most  unprofitable  sign  of  nothing, 
The  veriest  drone,  and  slept  away  my  life 
Beyond  the  dormouse,  till  I  was  in  love ! 
And  now  I  can  out-wake  the  nightingale, 
Out-watch  an  usurer,  and  out-walk  him  too, 
Stalk  like  a  ghost  that  haunted  'bout  a  treasure  ; 
And  all  that  fancied  treasure,  it  is  love  !  " 

Lamb,  Vol.  ii.,  pp.  73,  79. 

In  this  comedy,  also,  the  author's  tough  diction  melts, 
at  one  moment,  into  this  melodious  imagination  •  — 

"  Then  showered  his  bounties  on  me,  like  the  Hours, 
That  open-handed  sit  upon  the  clouds, 
And  press  the  liberality  of  heaven 
Dmcn  to  the  laps vf  thankful  men." 

The  last  eight  years  of  Jonson's  life  vacillated  between 
comfort  and  want.  He  seems  to  have  had  friends,  who 
came  to  his  assistance  in  his  extreme  need.  His  habits 
of  expensive  living  must  have  kept  him  poor.  To  sup- 
port a  man  of  his  "  unbounded  stomach  "  required  more 
than  the  ordinary  remunerations  of  literature.  He  seems, 
however,  to  have  had  intervals  of  prosperity  in  his  later 
years.  Howell,  writing  in  1636  to  Sir  Thomas  Hawk, 
has  a  most  vivid  picture  of  him,  as  he  appeared  in  all 
the  glory  of  conviviality.  "  I  was  invited  yesternight  to 
a  solemn  supper,  by  B.  J.,  where  you  were  deeply  re- 
membered. There  was  good  company,  excellent  cheer, 
choice  wines,  and  jovial  welcome.  One  thing  intervened 
which  spoiled  the  relish  of  the  rest,  —  that  B.  began  to 
engross  all  the  discourse,  to  vapor  extremely  of  himself, 
and  by  vilifying  others  to  magnify  his  own  Muse.  .  .  . 
.  .  But,  for  my  own  part,  I  am  content  to  dispense  with 
the  Roman  infirmity  of  Ben,  now  that  time  has  snowed 
upon  his  pericranium."     In  Sir  John  Suckling's  Session 

VOL.  n.  3 


34  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

of  the  Poets,  we  have  another  most  characteristic  pjrtmil 
of  Jonson,  as  he  appeared  in  his  old  age. 

"  The  first  that  broke  silence  was  good  old  Ben, 
Prepared  before  with  Canary  wine, 
And  he  told  them  plainly  he  deserved  the  bays, 
For  his  were  called  works  where  others'  were  but  plays 

"  Apollo  stopped  him  there,  and  bade  him  not  go  on  ; 
'T  was  merit,  he  said,  and  not  presumption, 
Must  carry  't  ;  at  which  Ben  turned  about, 
And  in  great  choler  offered  to  go  out." 

Jonson  died  on  the  sixth  day  of  August,  1637,  at  the 
age  of  sixty-three.  He  survived  both  his  wife  and  his 
children.  He  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey.  A 
common  pavement-stone,  laid  over  his  grave,  bears  the 
mscription,  "  0  Rare  Ben  Jo/^nson !  "  (not  Jonson,  as  it 
is  always  printed,)  —  a  phrase  which  has  passed  into  the 
current  speech  of  England.. 

Jonson  drenched  his  large  and  heavy  brain  freely  with 
stimulants.  It  was  said  that  every  line  of  his  poetry  cosi 
aim  a  cup  of  sack.  "  He  would,"  according  to  Aubrey, 
"  many  times  exceed  in  drink ;  Canary  was  his  beloved 
liquor  ;  then  he  would  tumble  home  to  bed,  and  when  he 
had  thoroughly  perspired,  he  would  then  to  study."  In 
the  bacchanalian  phraseology  of  that  day,  he  was  called 
a  Canary  bird.  He  is  said  to  have  weighed  twenty 
stone.  Barry  Cornwall  has  the  courageous  gracelessness 
to  commend  Ben's  festivities,  saying  that  "  the  Muses 
should  be  fed  generously,  —  that  good  meats  and  sound 
wines  nourish  and  invigorate  the  brain,  and  enable  the 
imagination  to  send  forth  spirited  and  sounding  strains." 
In  Jonson 's  case,  we  imagine  wine  was  necessary  to  set 
<he  huge  substance  of  his  brain  in  motion.  Charles  the 
First  probably   understood  the    poet's   wants,  when  h* 


ulD    ENGLISH    DRAMATISTS. 


35 


addod  trie  tierce  of  Canary  wine  to  his  yearly  stipend  of 
£100,  as  poet  laureate.  Habits  of  hard  drinking  were 
common  in  those  days. 

With  the  exception  of  this  too  potent  conviviality,  and 
bating  some  inherent  faults  of  character,  Jonson  seems 
to  have  been  one  of  the  best  men  of  his  time.  He  was 
honest  and  honorable.  He  had  a  hearty  hatred  of  mean- 
ness and  baseness,  and  shot  his  sharp  invective  at  the 
crimes  and  follies  of  his  day  with  commendable  courage. 
More  than  most  of  his  contemporaries,  he  estimated  the 
dignity  of  the  poet's  vocation.  In  the  dedication  of  Vol- 
pone  he  feeling,^^  alludes  to  the  bad  reputation  into  which 
his  order  had  fallen  ;  and  in  the  midst  of  much  pedantry 
and  arrogance,  we  discern  a  true  love  for  his  art.  He 
anticipates  Milton  in  asserting  "the  imposs'bility  of  any 
man's  being  the  good  poet,  without  first  being  a  good 
man."  With  terrible  force  he  lashes  those  of  his  craft 
who  have  betrayed  the  good  cause  by  ribaldry  and 
profaneness,  and  also  declaims  against  the  depravity  of 
the  age  which  supports  them  in  their  sins.  But  that  all 
the  dramatic  poets  are  "embarked  on  this  bold  adventure 
to  hell,"  he  calls  a  malicious  slander ;  and  to  show  his 
own  innocence,  pounces  on  those  "  miscelline  interludes," 
where,  he  says,  "  nothing  but  the  filth  of  the  time  is  ut- 
tered, and  with  such  impropriety  of  phrase,  such  plenty 
of  solecisms,  such  dearth  of  sense,  so  bold  prolepses,  so 
racked  metaphors,  with  brothelry  able  to  violate  the  ear 
of  a  pagan,  and  blasphemy  to  turn  the  blood  of  a  Chris- 
tian to  water."  He  laments,  that,  through  the  insolence 
of  these  writers,  the  name  of  poet,  once  so  honorable,  has 
become  "the  lowest  scorn  of  the  age;"  and  in  a  sen- 
tence worthy  of  Mi.ton,  asserts,  that,  if  the  Muses  be 
ivue  to  him.  he  will  "  raise  the  despised  head  of  poetry 


36  ESbAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

again,  and,  stripping  her  out  of  those  rottefi  and  base 
rags  wherewith  the  times  have  adulterated  her  form, 
restore  her  to  her  primitive  habit,  feature,  and  majesty, 
and  render  her  worthy  to  be  embraced  and  kissed  of  all 
the  great  and  master  spirhs  of  our  world."  These  are 
brave  and  bright  words,  and  show  deep  feeling.  His 
works  display,  in  a  hundred  places,  a  similar  spirit.  He 
rails  at  the  age  continually  for  its  degeneracy  and  wick- 
edness; and  takes  the  strong  ground,  that  the  "principal 
end  of  poesie  is  to  inform  men  in  the  best  reason  of  liv- 
ing." Jonson  really  scorned  the  office  of  pander  to  de- 
praved tastes.  We  do  not  think  that  he  ever  consciously 
surrendered  principle  to  profit.  The  exaggerated  notion 
he  entertained  of  his  own  powers  made  him  more  dis- 
posed to  lead  than  to  follow ;  and  the  worst  that  can  be 
said  of  him  is,  that,  if  he  failed  in  an  honest  effort,  he 
went  growling  back  into  his  den,  savage  but  uncon- 
quered.  Fletcher's  lighter  brain  and  lo'oser  principles 
allowed  him  to  slide  more  easily  into  the  debasing  habit 
of  meeting  a  demand  for  brilliant  profligacy  with  ample 
supplies. 

The  dramas  of  Jonson  are  formed  of  solid  materials, 
bound  and  welded  rather  than  fused  together.  Most  of 
his  comic  characters  are  local,  and  representative  of  par- 
ticular traits  or  humors,  —  dramatic  satires  on  contem- 
porary follies  and  faults.  His  greatest  delineation  we 
jonceive  to  be  Sir  Epicure  Mammon,  in  The  Alchemist, 
ihough  Volpone  and  Bobadil  might  contest  the  palm. 
The  "  riches  fineless"  of  learning  and  imagery  lavished 
upon  this  character  perfectly  astound  the  imagination 
Nothing  can  be  more  masterly  than  the  manner  in  which 
it  is  sustained; — the  towering  sensuality  of  the  man 
the  visions  of  luxury  and  wealth  in  which  his  mind  roam? 


ULU   ENGLISH    DRAMATISTS.  37 

and  revels,  liij  intense  realization  of  the  amazing  fictions 
he  himself  creates,  the  complete  despotism  established 
by  his  imagination  over  his  senses,  and  the  resolute 
credulity  with  which  he  accommodates  the  most  obstinate 
facts  to  his  desires,  make  up  a  character  which,  in  origin- 
ality, force,  and  truth  of  delineation,  seems  to  us  only 
second  to  Falstaff,  or,  at  least,  to  have,  out  of  Shak- 
speare,  no  peer  among  the  comic  creations  of  the  English 
drama. 

Volpone,  Bobadil,  Sejanus,  and  Catiline  are  strong 
delineations,  which  we  cannot  pause  to  consider.  As  a 
specimen,  however,  of  Jonson's  ponderous  style,  we  can- 
not refrain  quoting  a  few  lines  in  the  tragedy  of  Catiline, 
from  the  scene  in  the  first  act,  on  the  morning  of  the  con- 
spiracy.    Lentulus  says :  — 

"  Lent.   It  is  methinks  a  morning  full  of  fate. 
It  risetti  slowly,  as  her  sullen  car 
Had  all  the  weights  of  sleep  and  death  hung  at  it. 
She  is  not  rosy-fingered,  but  swoln  black. 
Her  face  is  like  a  water  turned  to  blood, 
And  her  sick  head  is  bound  about  with  clouds, 
As  if  she  threatened  night  ere  noon  of  day. 
It  does  not  look  as  it  would  have  a  hail 
Or  health  wished  in  it,  as  on  other  morns." 

Catiline,  in  allusion  to  the  massacres  of  Sylla,  gives  a 
stern  and  terrible  image  of  death  :  — 

"  Slaughter  hestrid  the  streets,  and  stretched  himselj' 
To  seem  viore  huge ; " 

ftnd  he  exclaims  afterwards  :  — 

"  Cinna  and  Sylla 
Are  set  an  1  gone  ;  and  we  must  turn  our  eyes 
On  him  that  is  and  shines.     Noble  Cethegus, 
But  view  him  with  me  here !     He  looks  already 
As  if  he  shook  a  sceptre  o'er  the  senate, 


,<£  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

And  the  awed  purple  dropt  their  rods  and  axes. 
The  statues  melt  again,  and  household  gods 
In  groans  confess  the  travails  of  the  city  ; 
The  very  walls  sweat  blood  before  the  change; 
And  stones  start  out  to  ruin,  ere  it  comes." 

It  would  be  easy  to  extract  largely  from  Jonson's  p'ays 
to  illustrate  his  powers  of  satire,  fancy,  observation,  and 
wit ;  and  to  quote  numberless  biting  sentences,  that  seem 
steeped  "  in  the  very  brine  of  conceit,  and  sparkle  like 
salt  in  fire."  His  masks  are  replete  with  beautiful  po- 
etry, as  delicate  as  it  is  rich.  We  have  only  space,  how- 
ever, to  introduce  from  The  Sad  Shepherd  one  specimen 
of  his  sweetness,  which  seems  to  have  been  overlooked 
by  others. 

"  Here  she  was  wont  to  go  !  and  here  !  and  here  ! 
Just  where  those  daisies,  pinks,  and  violets  grow: 
The  iDorld  may  find  the  spring  by  following  her, 
For  other  print  her  airy  steps  ne'er  left. 
Her  treading  would  not  bend  a  blade  of  grass, 
Or  shake  the  downy  blow-ball  from  his  stalk ! 
But  like  the  soft  west  wind  she  shot  along, 
And  where  she  went,  thefiowers  took  thickest  root, 
As  she  had  sowed  them  with  her  odorous  foot." 

Tennyson  has  a  similar  idea  in  The  Talking  Oak,  bu* 
has  added  a  subtle  imagination,  which  our  old  bard's 
mind  would  not  have  been  likely  to  grasp :  — 

"And  light  as  any  wind  that  blows, 
So  fleetly  did  she  stir, 
The  flowers,  she  touched  on,  dipt  and  rose, 
And  turned,  to  look  on  her." 

The  plays  of  Thomas  Decker,  honest  old  Decker,  are 
the  records  of  one  of  the  finest  and  most  lovable  spirits 
in  English  literature.  His  name  has  suffered  much  from 
Jonson's  cutting  scorn,  and,  indeed,  with  many  readers 
he  still  bears  about  the  same   relation  to  old  Ben  thai 


OLD    ENGLISH    DRAMATISTS.  39 

Cibbcr  does  to  Pope.  But  he  has  found  strong  and  acute 
friends  in  Lamb,  Hazlitt,  and  Hunt,  and  his  rare  merits 
as  a  poet  have  been  felicitously  presented.  He  is,  in  fact, 
one  of  the  most  fascinating  dramatists  of  his  generation, 
and,  with  much  vulgarity  and  trash,  has  passages  worthy 
of  the  greatest.  He  is  light,  airy,  sportive,  humane,  for- 
getive,  and  possesses  both  animal  and  intellectual  spirits 
to  perfection.  He  seems  flushed  and  heated  with  the 
very  wine  of  life  ;  throws  off  the  sunniest  morsels  of  wit 
and  wisdom  with  a  beautiful  heedlessness  and  unstudied 
ease ;  and  in  his  intense  enjoyment  of  life  and  motion 
appears  continually  to  exclaim,  with  his  own  Matheo, 
"  Do  we  not  fly  high  ?  "  Though  he  experienced  more 
than  the  common  miseries  and  vexations  of  his  class, 
still,  like  old  Fortunatus,  he  seems  to  be  "  all  felicity  up 
to  the  brims ;  "  to  have  "  revelled  with  kings,  danced 
•vith  queens,  dallied  with  ladies,  worn  strange  attires, 
seen  fantasticoes,  conversed  with  humorists,  been  rav- 
ished with  divine  raptures  of  Doric,  Lydian,  and  Phry- 
gian harmonies,"  Everything  in  him  is  swift,  keen, 
sparkling,  full  of  quicksilver  briskness  and  heartiness. 
His  sentiment  and  his  fancies  run  out  of  him  in  the 
overflowing  exuberance  of  a  happy  disposition.  There 
is  something  delightfully  simple  in  his  cheerfulness  and 
humanity.  His  genial  imagination  plays  with  divinities. 
His  qui\  ?r  is  full  of  those  winged  arrows  which  strike 
the  mark  in  the  white,  though  seemingly  sent  with  a  care- 
less aim.  His  sympathies  with  nature  and  his  kind  are 
wide,  deep,  and  instinctive.  His  mind  speeds  freely  out 
among  external  things,  with  nothing  to  check  its  wide- 
jvandering  flights.  His  Muse  leaps,  laughs,  and  sings, 
of  its  own  sweet  will.  Even  when  he  condescends  to 
what  Hunt  calls  an  "  astounding  coarseness,"  in  repre- 


40  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

senting  ths  bloods  and  men  of  wit  and  pleasure  about 
town,  which  inhabit  most  of  the  comedies  of  the  time, 
there  is  still  a  sharpness  and  quickness  of  movement 
which  carries  the  mind  swiftly  through  the  mud  into  o. 
Detter  region.  Decker  has,  strictly  speaking,  no  moral- 
ity ;  for  nothing  in  his  works  seems  to  depend  on  will  or 
principle,  but  to  spring  from  instinctive  sentiments ;  and 
when  these  are  delicate  or  noble  he  is  among  the  purest 
of  writers.  His  sweetness  and  humanity  are  exquisitely 
fine.  Thus,  one  passage  in  his  celebrated  lines  on 
Patience  has  become  almost  world-renowned. 

"  Patience,  my  lord,  why,  't  is  the  soul  of  peace  ; 
Of  all  the  virtues,  't  is  nearest  kin  to  heaven  ; 
It  makes  men  look  like  gods.     The  best  of  men 
That  e'er  loore  earth,  about  him  was  a  sufferer, 
A  soft,  meek,  patient,  humble,  tranquil  spirit, 
The  first  true  gentleman  that  ever  breathed." 

In  the  same  spirit  is  his  dialogue  between  the  Christian 
lady  and  the  angel,  in  The  Virgin  Martyr,  a  tragedy 
written  in  connection  with  Massinger.  The  refinement 
of  the  feeling  is  ahnost  unmatched  by  any  dramatist 
under  Shakspeare,  Dorothea  is  attended  by  an  angel, 
disguised  as  a  page,  —  a  "  smooth-faced,  glorious  thing," 
et  thousand  blessings  "  dancing  upon  his  eyes." 

"Angelo.     Dorothea.     2%e  time,  midnight. 

"  Dor.  My  book  and  taper. 

"  Ang.  Here,  most  holy  mistress. 

"  Dor.  Thy  voice  sends  forth  such  music,  that  I  never 
Was  ravished  with  a  more  celestial  sound. 
Were  every  servant  in  the  world  like  thee, 
So  full  of  goodness,  angels  would  come  down 
To  dwell  with  us  :  thy  name  is  Angelo, 
And  like  that  name  thou  art.     Get  thee  to  rest ; 
Thy  yoi''.h  with  too  much  watching  is  opprest. 


OLD    ENGLISH    DRAMATISTS.  41 

"  Ang.  No,  my  dear  lady.     I  could  weary  stars, 
And  force  the  wakeful  moon  to  lose  her  eyes, 
By  my  late  watching,  but  to  wait  on  you. 
When  at  your  prayers  you  kneel  before  the  altar, 
Methinks  I  'm  singing  with  some  quire  in  heaven, 
So  blest  I  hold  me  in  your  company. 
Therefore,  my  most  loved  mistress,  do  not  bid 
Your  boy,  so  serviceable,  to  get  hence : 
For  then  you  break  his  heart. 

"  Dor.  Be  nigh  me  still,  then. 
In  golden  letters  down  I  '11  set  that  day 
Which  gave  thee  to  me.     Little  did  I  hope 
To  meet  such  worlds  of  comfort  in  thyself, 
This  little,  pretty  body,  when  I,  coming 
Forth  of  the  temple,  heard  my  beggar-boy, 
My  sweet-faced,  godly  beggar-boy,  crave  an  alms. 
Which  with  glad  hand  I  gave,  with  lucky  hand  ; 
And  when  I  took  thee  home,  my  most  chaste  bosom 
Methought  was  filled  with  no  hot  wanton  fire. 
But  with  a  holy  flame,  mounting  since  higher, 
On  wings  of  cherubims,  than  it  did  before. 

"  Ang.  Proud  am  I  that  my  lady's  modest  eye 
So  likes  so  poor  a  servant. 

"  Dor.  I  have  offered 
Handfuls  of  gold  but  to  behold  thy  parents. 
I  would  leave  kingdoms,  were  I  queen  of  some. 
To  dwell  with  thy  good  father  ;  for,  the  son 
Bewitching  me  so  deeply  with  his  presence. 
He  that  begot  him  iimst  do  't  ten  times  more. 
I  pray  thee,  my  sweet  boy,  show  me  thy  parents  ; 
Be  not  ashamed. 

"  Ang.  I  am  not :  I  did  never 
Know  who  my  mother  was  ;  but,  by  yon  palace 
Filled  with  bright  heavenly  courtiers,  I  dare  assure  you, 
And  pawn  these  eyes  upon  it,  and  this  hand, 
My  father  is  in  heaven  ;  and,  pretty  mistress, 
If  your  illustrious  hour-glass  spend  his  sand 
No  worse  than  yet  it  doth,  upon  my  life, 
You  and  I  both  shall  meet  my  father  there, 
And  he  shall  bid  you  welcome. 
''Dor.  A  blessed  day  '  " 


42  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

Decker's  brain  was  fertile  in  fine  imaginations  and 
choice  bits  of  wisdom,  expressed  with  great  directness 
and  point.     We  give  a  few  specimens. 

"  See,  from  the  windows 
Of  every  eye  Derision  thrusts  out  cheeks 
Wrinkled  with  idiot  laughter  ;  every  finger 
Is  like  a  dart  shot  from  the  hand  of  Scorn." 

"  The  frosty  hand  of  age  now  nips  your  blood, 
And  strews  her  snowy  flowers  upon  your  head. 
And  gives  you  warning  that  within  few  years 
Death  needs  must  marry  you  ;  those  short  minutes, 
That  dribble  out  your  life,  must  needs  be  spent 
In  peace,  not  travail." 

"  Beauty  is  as  a  painting ;  and  long  life 
Is  a  long  journey  in  December  gone. 
Tedious,  and  full  of  tribulation." 

'  Though  mine  arm  should  conquer  twenty  worlds, 
2  here  's  a  lean  fellow  beats  all  conquerors." 

"  An  oath  !  why 't  is  the  traffic  of  the  soui. 
The  law  within  a  man  ;  the  seal  of  faith  ; 
The  bond  of  every  conscience  ;  unto  whom 
We  set  our  thoughts  like  hands." 

The  Duchess  of  Malfy,  and  The  White  Devil,  by 
John  Webster,  are  among  the  grandest  tragic  produc- 
tions of  Shakspeare's  contemporaries.  They  are  full  of 
"  deep  groans  and  terrible  ghastly  looks."  "  To  move  a 
horror  skilfully,"  says  Lamb,  "to  touch  a  soul  to  the 
quick,  to  lay  upon  fear  as  much  as  it  cati  bear,  to  icean 
and  weary  a  life  till  it  is  ready  to  drop,  and  then  step  in 
with  mortal  instruments  to  take  its  last  forfeit,  —  thi? 
onlv  a  Webster  can  do,"  Few  dramatists,  indeed,  equa 
hmi   in  the   steadiness  with  which  he  gazes   into   the 


OLD    ENGLISH    DRAMATISTS.  43 

awful  depths  of  passion,  and  the  stern  nerve  with  which 
he  portrays  the  dusky  and  terrible  shapes  which  flit 
vaguely  in  its  dark  abysses.  Souls  black  with  guilt,  or 
burdened  with  misery,  or  ghastly  with  fear,  he  probes  to 
their  innermost  recesses,  and  both  dissects  and  represents. 
His  mind  had  the  sense  of  the  supernatural  in  large 
measure,  and  it  gives  to  many  of  his  scenes  a  dim  and 
fearful  grandeur,  which  affects  the  soul  like  a  shadow 
cast  from  another  world.  He  forces  the  most  conven- 
tional of  his  characters  into  situations  which  lay  open 
the  very  constitution  of  their  natures,  and  thus  compels 
them  to  act  from  the  primitive  springs  of  feeling  and 
passion.  He  begins  with  duke  and  duchess ;  he  ends 
with  man  and  woman.  The  idea  of  death  asserts  itself 
more  strongly  in  his  Avritings  than  in  those  of  his  con- 
temporaries. In  The  White  Devil,  the  poisoned  Bra- 
chiano  exclaims, — 

"On  pain  of  death,  let  no  man  name  death  to  me  : 
It  is  a  word  most  infinitely  terrible." 

PMo  person  could  have  written  the  last  line  without  hav 
ing  brooded  deeply  over  the  mystery  of  the  grave.  It 
belongs  to  that  "  wild,  solemn,  preternatural  cast  of  grief 
which  bewilders  us  "  in  Webster.  He  fully  realized,  in 
relation  to  tragic  effect,  that  present  fears  are  less  than 
"  horrible  imaginings."  With  this  sombre  and  unearthly 
hue  tinging  his  mind,  he  is  still  not  deficient  in  touches 
of  simple  nature,  wrought  out  with  exquisite  art  and 
knowledge,  and  producing  efFects>  the  most  pathetic  or 
sublime.  The  death-scene  of  the  Duchess  of  Malfy  is  a 
grand  example.  This  proud,  high-hearted  woman  is 
persecuted  by  her  two  brothers  with  a  strange  accumu- 
lation of  horrors,  designed,  with  a  devilish  ingenuity 


14  ESSAYS  AND   REVIEWS. 

gradually  to  break  hei  heart  and  madden  her  brain. 
Lamb  very  truly  remarks,  —  "  She  speaks  the  dialect  of 
despair,  her  tongue  has  a  snatch  of  Tartarus  and  the 
souls  in  bale.  What  are  '  Luke's  iron  crown,'  the  brazen 
bull  of  Perillus,  Procrustes'  bed,  to  the  waxen  images 
which  counterfeit  death,  to  the  wild  masque  of  madmen, 
the  tomb-maker,  the  bellman,  the  living  person's  dirge, 
the  mortification  by  degrees  ! '"' 

Vittoria  Corombona,  the  White  Devil,  is  a  great  bad 
character,  "fair  as  the  leprosy  dazzling  as  the  light- 
ning." Her  conduct  at  her  arraignment  is  the  perfection 
of  guilt  in  all  its  defying  impudence.  We  have  no  space 
for  extracts.  Webster  seems  to  hare  imitated  the  spirit 
of  Shakspeare  more  directly  than  any  of  his  brother 
dramatists.  In  the  preface  to  this  play  he  has  a  curious 
reference  to  his  master,  alluding  to  the  "  right  happy  and 
copious  industry  of  Master  Shakspeare,  Master  Decker, 
and  Master  Heywood." 

Marston,  Heywood,  Chapman,  and  Middleton,  are 
stirring  names  of  this  era.  John  Marston  is  a  bitter 
satirist  of  crime  and  folly,  and  often  probes  the  heart  to 
its  core  in  his  dark  thrusts  at  evil.  He  shows  a  large 
acquaintance  with  the  baseness  and  depravity  of  men, 
and  exposes  them  mercilessly.  His  mind  was  strong, 
keen,  and  daring,  with  hot  and  impatient  impulses,  con- 
trolled by  a  stern  vi^ill,  and  condensed  into  scorn.  He 
seems  to  have  borne  somewhat  the  same  relation  to  his 
contemporaries  that  Hazlitt  did  to  the  authors  of  our 
time.  He  quarrelled  and  fought  with  many  of  them,  in 
metrical  battles.  In  one  of  the  satires  of  the  time,  he  is 
termed  a  "  ruffian  in  his  style,"  one  who 

"Cuts,  thrusts,  and  foins  at  whomsoe'er  tie  meets  ; ' 


OLD    ENGLISH    DRAMATISTS.  45 

one  who  in  his  satire  is  not  content  with  *'  modest,  c.ose- 
couched  terms,"  but  uses 

"  Plain,  naked  words,  stript  from  their  shirts, 
That  might  beseem  plain-dealing  Aretine." 

We  have  already  referred  to  his  quarrels  with  Ben 
Jonson.  He  was  doubtless  unpopular,  as  most  satirists 
must  be.  Jonson  accuses  him  of  envy,  and  other  bad 
passions.  His  comic  scenes,  though  often  brilliant,  have 
no  hearty  mirth ;  but  his  stern,  sharp,  scornful  mind 
repeatedly  touched  the  sources  of  pathos  and  terror, 
though,  in  his  tragedy,  he  was  too  apt  to  shed  blood  as 
fluently  as  ink.  We  extract  some  short  passages  from 
his  plays,  clipped  from  their  connection  with  character 
and  incident,  to  show  the  strength  of  his  powers,  and 
their  poetical  side.  The  first  has  great  sweetness  and 
beauty. 

"  As  having  clasped  a  rose 
Within  my  palm,  the  rose  being  ta'cn  away, 
My  hand  retains  a  little  breath  of  sweet ; 
So  Tnaij  7nan's  trunk,  his  spirit  slipped  away, 
Hold  still  a  faint  perfume  of  his  sweet  guest." 

The  eloquent  ravings  of  Andrugio,  in  Antonio  and 
Mellida,  are  replete  with  imagination,  as  when  he 
asks, — 


"  Is  not  yon  gleam  the  shuddering  Morn  that  flakes 
With  silver  tincture  the  east  verge  of  heaven  ?  " 


A.ni  again 


"  Wouldst  have  me  go  unarmed  among  my  foes  ? 
Being  besieged  by  Passion,  entering  lists 
To  combat  with  Despair  and  mighty  Grief: 
My  soul  beleaguered  with  the  crushing  strength 
Of  sharp  Impatience.     Ha,  jucin  ;  go  unarmed  7 


46  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

Come,  soul,  resume  the  valor  of  thy  birth ; 
Myself,  myself  will  liare  all  opposites  : 
I  '11  muster  forces,  an  unvaiiquished  power  : 
Cornets  of  horse  shall  press  the  ungrateful  eart 
This  hollow-wombed  mass  shall  inly  groan 
And  murmur  to  sustain  the  weight  of  arms: 
Ghastly  Amazement,  icith  upstarted  hair. 
Shall  hurry  on  before,  and  usher  us, 
Whilst  trumpets  clamor  with  a  sound  of  death." 

The  toUowing  is  very  powerful  and  impressive,  —  mis- 
nry  dressed  out  in  the  very  robes  of  despair,  and  dark 
ening  earth  and  heaven  with  its  baleful  gloom. 

"  The  rawish  dank  of  clumsy  winter  ramps 
The  fluent  summer's  vein  ;  and  drizzling  sleet 
Ghilloth  the  wan  bleak  cheek  of  the  numbed  earth. 
While  snarling  gusts  nibble  the  juiceless  leaves 
From  the  naked  shuddering  branch,  and  pills*  the  skin 
From  off  the  soft  and  delicate  aspects. 
O,  now  meihinks  a  sullen  tragic  scene 
Would  suit  the  time  with  pleasing  congruence. 
***** 
"  But  if  a  breast, 
Nailed  to  the  earth  with  grief ;  if  any  heart, 
Pierced  through  with  anguish,  pant  within  this  ring; 
If  there  be  any  blood,  whose  heat  is  choked 
And  stifled  with  true  sense  of  misery : 
If  aught  of  these  strains  fill  this  consort  up, 
They  arrive  most  welcome." 

The  following  passages  tell  their  own  story,  in  strong 
and  sometimes  terrible  language  :  — 

"  Day  breaking. 

"  See,  the  dapple  gray  coursers  of  the  morn 
Beat  up  the  light  with  their  bright  silver  hoofs, 
And  chase  it  through  the  sky." 

*  PeeU. 


OLD    KNGLISH    DRAMATISTS.  Al 

"  One  who  died,  slandered. 

"  Look  on  those  lips, 
Thttse  now  lawn  pillows,  on  whose  tender  softness 
Chaste,  modest  Speech,  stealing  from  out  his  breast, 
Had  wont  to  rest  itself,  as  loth  to  post 
From  out  so  fair  an  Inn :  look,  look,  they  seem 
To  stir. 
And  breathe  defiance  to  black  obloquy." 

"  Description  of  the  Witch  Evict  ho. 
•'  Here  in  this  desert  the  great  Soul  of  charms 
Dreadful  Erictho  lives :  whose  dismal  brow 
Contemns  all  roofs,  or  civil  coverture. 
Forsaken  graves  and  tombs  (the  ghosts  forced  out) 
She  joys  to  inhabit. 

A  loathsome  yellow  leanness  spreads  her  face, 
A  heavy  hell-like  paleness  loads  her  cheeks, 
Unknown  to  a  clear  heaven.     But  if  dark  winds 
Or  black  thick  clouds  drive  back  the  blinded  stars, 
When  her  deep  magic  makes  forced  heaven  quake 
And  thunder,  spite  of  Jove:   Erictho  then 
From  naked  graves  stalks  out,  heaves  proud  her  head 
With  long  unkembed  hair  loaden,  and  strives  to  snatch 
The  night's  quick  sulphur." 

Lamb  calls  Thomas  Heywood,  very  finely,  "  a  sort  of 
prose  Shakspeare,"  and  adds,  "his  scenes  are  to  the  full  as 
natural  and  affecting.  But  we  miss  the  poet,  that  which 
in  Shakspeare  always  appears  out  and  above  the  surface 
of  the  nature.  Heywood's  characters,  his  country  gen- 
tlemen, &c.,  are  exactly  what  we  see  (but  of  the  best 
kind  of  what  we  see)  in  life.  Shakspeare  makes  us 
believe,  while  we  are  among  his  lovely  creations,  that 
they  are  nothing  but  what  we  are  familiar  with,  as  in 
dreams  new  things  seem  old ;  but  we  awake,  and  sigh 
for  the  difference."  Heywood  was  a  rapid  writer,  claim- 
ing, in  one  of  his  prefaces,  the  authorship  of  some  two 
hundred  and  twenty  plays,  in  which  he  had  "  either  ao 


48  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

entire  hand,  or  at  least  a  main  finger."  Of  these,  bui 
twenty-five  have  been  preserved.  He  appears  to  have 
been  a  modest,  amiable  man,  not  especially  stirred  by 
the  fiercer  passions,  and  writing  with  singular  facility  a 
sweet  and  harmonious,  though  not  poetical,  style.  Haz- 
litt  calls  it  "  beautiful  prose  put  into  heroic  metre."  It 
is  not  dotted  over  with  those  sharp  and  fiery  points  of 
passion  and  fancy,  nor  brightened  by  those  quick  flashes 
of  imagination,  which  characterized  the  general  styk  of 
the  period.  A  Woman  Killed  with  Kindness  is  his  most 
affecting  play.  The  character  of  Mrs.  Frankford  in  this 
drama  has  been  advantageously  compared  with  that  of 
Mrs.  Haller,  in  The  Stranger.  The  Englishman  of  the 
seventeenth  century  is  a  better  moralist  than  the  German 
of  the  nineteenth.  Lamb's  extracts  from  four  of  Hey- 
wood's  plays  will  give  the  reader  a  good  idea  of  his 
manner  and  his  powers.  The  most  celebrated  passage 
in  his  works  is  the  shipwreck  by  drink,  related  in  The 
English  Traveller,  in  his  peculiar  frank,  light-footed 
style. 

George  Chapman,  the  translator  of  Homer,  was  the 
author  of  several  tragedies  and  comedies.  Lamb  places 
him  next  to  Shakspeare  in  didactic  and  descriptive  pas- 
sages, but  "  he  could  not  go  out  of  himself,  as  Shakspeare 
could  shift  at  pleasure,  to  inform  and  animate  other 
existences."  His  genius  was  reflective  rather  than  dra- 
matic. His  plays-  are  full  of  striking  imaginations,  and 
stern,  deep  comments  on  life,  with  here  and  there  starts 
of  tragic  passion.  Hazlitt  says  that  he  "  aims  at  the 
highest  things  in  poetry,  but  tries  in  vain,  wanting  imag- 
ination and  passion,  to  fill  up  the  epic  moulds  of  tragedj 
with  sense  and  reason  alone,  so  that  he  often  runs  into 
Dombast  and  turgidity,  —  is  extravagant  and  pedantic  at 


OLD    ENGLISH    DRAMATISTS.  49 

one  and  the  same  time."  This  does  not  do  just  ice  to 
what  Webster  called  "  the  full  and  heightened  style  of 
Master  Chapman."  Though  not  a  man  of  harmoniously 
developed  genius,  there  are  few  writers  of  the  period, 
who.^e  personal  character,  as  stamped  on  their  serious 
poetry,  makes  a  graver  and  deeper  impression  than  that 
of  Chapman.  He  is  the  impersonation  of  a  lofty,  dar- 
ing, self-centred  soul,  feeling  within  itself  a  right  to 
achieve  the  mightiest  objects  of  human  pursuit,  and 
reposing  with  a  proud  confidence  on  the  sense  of  its  own 
power  and  dignity.  His  feeling  is  Titanic,  but  his 
capacity  is  not  up  to  his  feeling.  He  resolutely  plants 
himself  on  the  soul,  and  subordinates  all  things  to  it, 
like  some  of  our  modern  Transcendentalists ;  but  he 
holds  a  braver,  fiercer,  and  more  defying  attitude  towards 
external  things  than  they.  In  some  respects  he  reminds 
us  of  Marlowe,  but  slow^er,  more  weighty,  more  intensely 
reflective  and  self-sustained.  Perhaps  he  may  be  called 
the  Fuseli  of  our  old  dramatists.  We  can  imagine  him, 
as  he  sat  patiently  and  painfully  fashioning,  in  "  the 
quick  forge  and  working-house  of  thought,"  his  colossal 
and  irregular  shapes  of  power,  making  some  such  remark 
as  Fuseli  made  to  the  pleasant  gentleman  who  asked  him 
if  he  believed  in   the  existence  of  the  soul :  —  "I  don't 

know,  sir,  as  you  have  any  soul ;   but  by I  hnov}  I 

have."  There  is  about  Chapman  a  rough  grandeur, 
firmly  based,  and  as  sufficient  for  itself  as  an  old,  knotty 
and  gnarled  tree,  rooted  in  rocks,  and  lifting  itself  up  in 
defiance  of  tempests,  —  not  without  fine  foliage,  but 
principally  attractive  from  its  hard  vitality,  its  capacity 
of  resistance,  and  the  sullen  content  with  which  it  ex- 
poses to  the  eye  its  tough,  ragged,  and  impenetrable 
nodosities.     He  has  no  need   of  bluster  or  bombast  to 

VOL.  II.  4 


60  ESSAYS   AND    REVIEWb. 

confirm  his  good  opinion  of  himself,  as  is  often  the  case 
with  Marlowe  and  Byron  ;  but  his  mind  is  calm,  fixed, 
and  invincible  in  its  self-esteem.  The  citadel  of  self 
cannot  be  conquered,  can  hardly  be  attacked,  though  the 
universe  marshals  all  its  pomp  and  circumstance  to 
shame  him  from  his  complacency. 

"  I  am  a  nobler  substance  than  the  stars : 
And  shall  the  baser  overrule  the  better  ? 
Or  are  they  better  since  they  are  the  bigger? 
1  have  a  will,  and  faculties  of  choice. 
To  do  or  not  to  do  ;   and  reason  why 
I  do  or  not  do  this  :  the  stars  have  none. 
They  know  not  why  they  shine,  more  than  this  taper. 
Nor  how  they  work,  nor  what.     I  '11  change  my  course : 
I'll  piecemeal  pull  the  frame  of  all  my  thoughts: 
And  where  are  all  your  Caput  Algols  then  ? 
Vour  planets  all  being  underneath  the  earth 
At  my  nativity  :   what  can  they  do  7  " 

And  again,  hear  the  brave  old  heathen  discourse  o. 
the  invulnerability  of  a  true  master  spirit  who  has  trust 
m  himself :  — 

"  The  Master  Spirit. 

"  Give  me  a  spirit  that  on  life's  rough  sea 
Loves  to  have  his  sails  filled  with  a  lusty  wind. 
Even  till  his  sail-yards  tremble,  his  masts  crack. 
And  his  rapt  ship  run  on  her  side  so  low. 
That  she  drinks  water,  and  her  keel  ploughs  air. 
There  is  no  danger  to  a  man  that  knows 
What  life  and  death  is  :   there  's  not  any  law 
Exceeds  his  knowledge;  neither  is  it  laicfxd 
That  he  should  stoop  to  any  other  law; 
He  goes  before  them  and  commands  them  all, 
That  to  himself  is  a  law  rational." 

The  lines  in  Italics  furnished  Shelley  a  fit  motto  fo. 
his  Revolt  of  Islam. 


OLD   ENGLISH    DRAMATISTS.  51 

Cha»i.ndn  is  supposed  by  Dr.  Drake  to  be  the  author 
of  those  lines  On  Worthy  Master  Shakspeare  and  his 
Poems,  signed  J.  M.  S.,  and  commencing, — 

"  A  mind  reflecting  ages  past,"  — 

the  noblest  and  justest  of  the  yoetical  tributes  to  Shaks- 
peare's  supreme  genius.  We  think  the  conjecture  a 
shrewd  one,  and  borne  out  by  the  internal  testimony 
which  the  lines  themselves  offer.  They  are  in  Chap- 
man's labored  and  "  enormous  "  manner,  —  the  images 
huge  and  intellectual,  and  shown  through  the  dusky  light 
of  his  peculiar  imagination.     Here  is  a  specimen  :  — 

"  To  outrun  hast)'  time,  retrieve  the  fates. 
Roll  back  the  heavens,  blow  ope  the  iron  gates 
Of  death  and  Lethe,  where  confused  lie 
Cheat  heaps  of  ruinous  mortality." 

The  reputation  of  Thomas  Middleton,  with  modem 
readers,  is  chiefly  based  on  his  Witch,  several  often 
:juoted  scenes  of  which  have  been  supposed  to  have  sug- 
gested to  Shakspeare  the  supernatural  machinery  of 
Macbeth.  If  this  be  true,  it  only  proves  Coleridge's 
remark,  that  a  great  genius  pays  usurious  interest  on 
what  he  borrows.  The  play  itself  is  tedious,  and  not 
particularly  poetical,  and  the  witches  are  introduced  to 
effect  an  object  very  far  from  subliiTie.  Lamb,  after 
extracting  copiously  from  the  play,  adds  the  following 
eloquent  and  discriminative  remarks  :  — 

"  Though  some  resemblance  maj'  be  traced  between  the  charms 
in  Macbeth  and  the  incantations  in  this  play,  which  is  supposed 
lo  ."lave  preceded  it,  this  coincidence  will  not  detract  much  from 
the  o:iginalitv  of  Shakspeare.     His  witches  are  distinguished 


52  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

from  the  witches  of  Middleton  hy  essential  differences.  Thes 
are  creatures  to  A'hom  man  or  woman  plotting  some  dire  mis- 
chief might  resort  for  occasional  consultation.  Those  originate 
deeds  of  blood,  and  begin  bad  impulses  to  men.  From  the  mo- 
ment that  their  eyes  first  meet  with  Macbeth's,  he  is  spell-bound. 
That  meeting  sways  his  destiny.  He  can  never  break  the  fas- 
cination. These  witches  can  hurt  the  body  :  those  have  power 
over  the  soul.  —  Hecate,  in  Middleton,  has  a  son,  a  low  buffoon  : 
the  hags  of  Shakspeare  have  neither  child  of  their  own,  nor 
seem  to  be  descended  from  any  parent.  They  are  foul  Anoma- 
lies, of  whom  we  know  not  whence  they  are  sprung,  nor  whether 
they  have  beginning  or  ending.  As  they  are  without  human 
passions,  so  they  seem  to  be  without  human  relations.  They 
come  with  thunder  and  lightning,  and  vanish  to  airy  music. 
This  is  all  we  know  of  them.  — Except  Hecate,  they  have  no 
names  ;  which  heightens  their  mysteriousness.  Their  names, 
and  some  of  the  properties  which  Middleton  has  given  to  his 
hags,  excite  smiles.  The  weird  sisters  are  serious  things. 
Their  presence  cannot  coexist  with  mirth.  But,  in  a  lesser 
degree,  the  witches  of  Middleton  are  fine  creations.  Their 
power,  too,  is,  in  some  measure,  over  the  mind.  They  raise 
jars,  jealousies,  strifes,  like  a  thick  scurf  o'er  life.'"  —  Lamb, 
Vol.1.,  p.  163. 

The  plays  of  Middleton  are  not,  in  general,  up  to  the 
level  of  the  time.  He  rambles  loosely  through  his  work, 
and  taxes  the  patience  of  his  readers  without  adequately 
rewarding  it.  Numerous  passages  in  his  dramas,  how- 
ever, show  that  he  had  that  sway  over  the  passions,  and 
that  fertility  of  fancy,  which  seemed  native  to  all  the 
dramatists  of  the  period.  Hazlitt  concedes  to  his  Women 
beware  Women  "a  rich,  marrowy  vein  of  internal  senti 
ment,  with  fine  occasional  insight  into  human  nature 
and  cool,  cutting  irony  of  expression."  In  this  play 
occurs  the  noted  rhapsody  on  marriage,  spoken  by  one 
who  was  returning,  as  he  supposed,  to  a  faithful  wife 


OLD    ENGLISH   DRAMATISTS.  5J 

but  who  finds  her  a  vixen  and  adulteress.     It  reminds  us 
nf  an  early  chapter  in  Goethe's  Wilhelm  Meister. 

''  The  treasures  of  the  deep  arc  not  so  precious 
As  are  the  concealed  comforts  of  a  man 
Locked  u^)  in  woman's  love.     I  scent  the  air 
Of  blessings  when  I  come  but  near  the  house : 
What  a  delicious  breath  marriage  sends  forth! 
The  violet  bed  's  not  sweeter.     Honest  wedlock 
Is  like  a  banqueting-house  built  in  a  garden, 
On  which  the  spring's  chaste  flowers  take  delight 
To  cast  their  modest  odors. 

53  "  Now  for  a  welcome 

Abie  to  draw  men's  envies  upon  man : 
A  kiss  now,  that  will  hang  upon  my  lip, 
As  sweet  as  morning  dew  upon  a  rose. 
And  full  as  long." 

Cyril  Tourneur  is  a  prominent  name  among  the 
dramatists  of  the  period.  His  two  plays,  The  Atheist's 
Tragedy  and  The  Revenger's  Tragedy,  are  copiously 
quoted  by  Lamb.  He  has  touches  of  the  finest  and 
highest  genius.  There  runs  through  him  a  vein  of  the 
deepest  philosophy.  His  tragedies  evince  a  mind  that 
has  brooded  long  over  its  own  thoughts,  and  sent  search- 
ing glances  into  the  unsounded  depths  of  the  soul.  In 
his  delineation  of  the  stronger  passions,  he  often  startles 
and  thrills  the  mind  by  terrible  and  unexpected  flashes 
of  truth.  His  diction  is  free,  fearless,  familiar,  and 
cirect,  pervaded  by  fancy  and  imagination,  and  rarely 
bald  and  prosaic.  ♦  There  is  one  passage  in  The  Reveng- 
er's Tragedy  which  is  almost  unequalled  for  tragic 
grandeur,  Castiza  is  urged  by  her  mother  and  her  dis- 
guised brofher  to  accept  the  dishonorable  proposals  of  a 
Juke.  Vindici,  the  brother,  whose  object  is  simply  to 
test  the  virtue  of  his  sister,  eloquently  sets  forth  the 


54  ESSAYS    ANI     REVIEWS. 

advantages  sKe  will  gain  by  sacrificing  her  honor.  The 
mother  adds:  —  "Troth,  he  says  true:"  and  then  Cas- 
tiza  vehemently  exclaims  :  — 

"  False  !     I  defy  you  both ! 
I  have  endured  you  with  an  ear  of  fire  ; 
Your  tongues  have  struck  hot  irons  on  my  fact. 
Mother,  come  from  that  poisonous  woman  there! 

«  Moth.     Where  ? 

"  Cast.     Do  you  not  see  her?  she 's  too  inward,  then." 

At  the  close  of  this  scene,  there  is  one  of  those  beau- 
tiful touches  of  nature,  conveyed  by  allusion,  in  which 
the  old  dramatists  excel.     Vindici  says  :  - 

"  Forgive  me,  Heaven,  to  call  my  mother  wicked ! 
O,  lessen  not  iny  days  upon  the  earth  ! 
I  cannot  honor  her." 

Lamb  says,  that  the  scene  in  which  the  brothers 
threaten  their  mother  with  death  for  consenting  to  the 
dishonor  of  their  sister  surpasses,  in  reality  and  life,  any 
scenical  illusion  he  ever  felt.  "  I  never  read  it,"  he 
says,  "  but  my  ears  tingle,  and  I  feel  a  hot  blush  spread 
my  cheeks,  as  if  I  were  presently  about  to  '  proclaim ' 
some  such  '  malefactions '  of  myself,  as  the  brothers  here 
rebuke  in  their  unnatural  parent,  in  words  more  keen 
and  dagger-like  than  those  which  Hamlet  speaks  to  his 
mother." 

We  extract  one  passage  from  this  tragedy.  Vindic 
addresses  the  skull  of  his  dead  lady  :  — 

"  Here  's  an  eye, 
Able  to  tempt  ■s  great  man,  —  to  serve  God  ; 
A  pretty  hanging  lip,  that  has  forgot  now  to  dissemble. 
Methinks  tliis  mouth  should  make  a  swearer  tremble 
A  drunkard  clasp  his  teeth,  and  not  undo  'em. 
To  suffer  wet  damnation  to  run  through  'em. 
Here  's  a  cheek  keeps  her  color,  let  the  wir    gO  whist'p 


OLD    ENGLISH    DKAMATIfiTS.  55 

Spout  Td^n,  we  fear  thee  not :  be  hot  or  cold, 
All 's  one  willi  us :  and  is  not  he  absurd, 
Whose  fortunes  are  upon  their  faces  set? 
That  fear  no  other  God  but  wind  and  wet? 

Does  every  proud  and  self-affecting  dame 

Camphire  her  face  for  this  ?  and  grieve  her  Maker 

In  sinful  baths  of  milk,  when  many  an  infant  starves 

For  her  superfluous  outside,  for  all  this? 

Who  now  bids  twenty  pound  a  night?  prepares 

Music,  perfumes,  and  sweet-meats  ?  all  are  hushed. 

Thou  mayst  lie  chaste  now!  it  were  fine,  methinks, 

To  have  thee  seen  at  revels,  forgetful  feasts, 

And  unclean  brothels :  sure,  't  would  fright  the  sinnei, 

And  make  him  a  good  coward:  put  a  reveller 

Out  of  his  anlick  amble. 

And  cloy  an  epicure  with  empty  dishes.  » 

Here  might  a  scornful  and  ambitious  woman 

Look  throngh  and  through  herself.  — See,  ladies,  with  false  foms, 

You  deceive  men,  but  cannot  deceive  worms." 

Lamb,  Vol.  i.,  pp.  171,  172. 

Those  renowned  twins  of  poetry,  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  long  held  a  rank  among  English  dramatic 
writers  second  only  to  Shakspeare ;  as,  in  a  more  profli- 
gate period,  they  were  deemed  his  superiors.  Though 
as  poets,  lyrical  and  descriptive,  they  are  entitled  to  a 
high  place  for  fancy  and  sentiment,  yet  they  appear  to 
us  thin  men,  when  compared  with  Marlowe,  Jonson, 
Webster,  Chapman,  and  some  others.  In  the  delineation 
of  character,  and  in  the  exhibition  of  great  passions,  they 
lack  solidity,  depth,  condensation  of  style,  rapidity  of 
action  ;  and  we  cannot  mention  two  prominent  English 
writers  more  destitute  of  moral  principle.  Fletcher,  it 
must  be  allowed,  is  the  more  volatile  and  fertile  sinner 
of  the  two.  During  their  lives,  they  enjoyed  a  vast  rep- 
Jtatioc,  for  they  were  preeimnentl/  the  panders  of  their 
generation.     The  commendatory  verses  on  their  tvorks 


56  ESSAYS    AND   REVIEWS. 

would  fill  a  small  volume.  Shirley,  in  a  preface  to  ihs 
folio  edition  of  their  plaj-s,  published  in  1647,  signs  him- 
self their  "  humble  admirer,"  and  pours  out  his  admira- 
tion for  their  genius  in  the  highest  strain  of  panegyric 
To  mention  them,  he  says,  "  is  but  to  throw  a  cloud 
upon  all  other  names,  and  benight  posterity ;  this  book 
being,  without  flattery,  the  greatest  monument  of  the 
scene  that  time  and  humanity  have  produced,  and  must 
live,  not  only  the  crown  and  sole  reputation  of  our  own, 
but  the  stain  of  all  other  nations  and  languages."  It 
would  be  easy  to  quote  other  eulogies  almost  as  insanely 
extravagant. 

Both  these  dramatists  were  men  of  family  and  educa- 
tion. Beaumont  was  born  in  15S6,  ten  years  after 
Fletcher,  and  died  in  1615,  ten  years  before  him.  His 
faculties  ripened  early.  At  the  age  of  ten,  he  became  a 
gentleman  commoner  at  college.  When  only  sixteen, 
he  published  a  translation  of  one  of  Ovid's  fables ;  and 
was  a  close  friend  of  Ben  Jonson,  and  one  of  the  lights 
of  the  Mermaid,  at  the  age  of  nineteen.  His  "judg- 
ment" seems  to  have  been  as  universally  admitted  as 
Fletcher's  "fancy."  Jonson,  it  is  said,  consulted  him 
often  about  the  plots  of  his  plays.  His  partnership  with 
Fletcher  seems  to  have  commenced  when  he  was  about 
twenty-two,  and  to  have  run  to  his  death. 

Fletcher  was  born  in  1576,  and  was  less  precocious 
than  Beaumont.  There  is  no  evidence  that  he  wrote 
for  the  stage  before  1606,  Avhen  he  was  thirty  years  old. 
He  ^eems  to  have  had  expensive  habits,  and  some  prop- 
erty ;  the  latter  probably  left  him  in  advance  of  the 
former.  The  fact,  that  during  the  last  four  years  of  his 
life  he  wrote  eleven  plays,  seems  to  indicate  a  depend 
ence  on  his  pen  for  support.     He  died  in  16??5,  of  the 


OLD    E^^GLISH    DRAPIATISTS.  57 

plague.  Of  the  fifty-two  plays  published  undei  his  and 
Beaumonc's  name,  it  has  been  contended  that  th;  latter 
had  a  part  in  only  seventeen.  Among  these,  however, 
are  The  Maid's  Tragedy,  Philaster,  and  King  and  No 
King,  —  three  of  the  most  celebrated  in  the  collection. 
There  is  also  some  reason  to  believe  that  Beaumont  had 
a  share,  more  or  less,  in  Valentinian,  and  Thierry  and 
Theodoret;  but  none  in  The  Faithful  Shepherdess  or 
The  Two  Noble  Kinsmen.  Many  critics  have  thought 
they  traced  indubitable  marks  of  Shalcspeare's  mind  and 
manner  in  some  scenes  of  the  latter.  Lamb  counte- 
nances this  conjecture  from  the  internal  evidence  afTord- 
ed  by  some  of  the  striking  Shakspearian  scene;;.  He 
says  that  the  manner  of  the  two  dramatists  is  essentially 
different.  Fletcher's  "  ideas  move  slow;  his  versification, 
thoiigh  sweet,  is  tedious;  it  stops  every  moment;  he 
lays  line  upon  line,  making  up  one  after  the  other,  add- 
ing image  to  image  so  deliberately,  that  we  see  where 
they  join.  Shakspeare  mingles  everything ;  he  runs 
line  into  line,  embarrasses  sentences  and  metaphors; 
before  one  idea  has  burst  its  shell,  another  is  hatched, 
and  clamorous  for  disclosure."  Fletcher  wrote  twenty- 
seven  plays  after  Beaumont's  death,  and,  it  is  supposed, 
four  before  ;  and  there  are  eight  written  in  connection 
with  other  authors,  which  swells  the  whole  list  from 
fifty-two  to  sixty. 

This  speaks  volumes  for  Fletcher's  fruitfulness  of 
fancy ;  and  if  the  dramas  evinced  a  range  and  depth  of 
character  corresponding  to  their  number,  it  might  well 
excite  wonder.  But  this  is  not  the  case.  The  frame- 
work of  Fletcher's  dramatis  persoiUB  is  generally  light 
xnd  thin,  and  he  continually  repeats  a  few  types  of  char- 
icter.     What  he  lacks  in  depth  and  intensity  of  mind. 


58  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

he  seeks  to  make  up  in  point,  bustle,  incident,  intriguo, 
and  comic  or  tragic  situation.  If  we  subtract  from  his 
plays  all  their  wit,  fancy,  imagination,  and  passion,  leav- 
ing whatever  is  mere  buffoonery,  ribaldry,  or  exaggerated 
commonplace,  we  shall  have  a  larger  and  more  detest- 
able mass  of  ignoble  depravity  and  slang  than  could  he 
scooped  out  of  the  works  of  any  other  man  of  genius. 
When  he  began  to  write,  the  morality  of  tlie  fashionable 
and  educated  classes  had  become  relaxed.  The  court 
of  James  the  First  was  dissolute  and  intrinsically  vul- 
gar. The  ears  of  high-born  ladies  did  not  tingle  at  the 
coarsest  jests,  nor  their  cheeks  burn  in  viewing  the  most 
licentious  situations.  A  change  had  come  over  the 
"  public  "  taste,  since  the  time  of  Sidney  and  Spenser. 
Debauchery  and  the  maxims  of  libertinism  were  more 
in  vogue.  The  line  separating  the  gentleman  from  the 
rake  had  imperceptibly  narrowed,  not  to  be  altogether 
obliterated  until  the  reign  of  Charles  the  Second.  False- 
hood, folly,  sin,  and  decay,  seemed  natural  attendants  op 
the  Stuarts.  Fletcher  mu.^t  be  set  down  as  a  poet  who 
wilfully  or  heedlessly  prostituted  his  genius  to  varnish 
this  "  genteel  rottenness."  His  mind  freely  obeyed 
external  direction.  Like  his  own  Mistress  Bacha,  in 
Cupid's  Revenge,  he  seems  to  say  to  the  age :  — 

"  I  do  feel  a  weakness  in  myselt 
That  can  deny  you  nothing;  if  you  tempt  me, 
I  shall  embrace  sin  as  it  were  a  friend, 
And  run  to  meet  it." 

His  quick  animal  spirits,  and  his  absence  of  depth,  pre- 
serve his  immorality  from  that  malignity  and  brutality 
which  shock  us  in  some  of  his  successors  at  the  Restor 
tttion ;  and  as  the  sweetness  of  the  poet  ne^  er  absolutel j 


OLD    ENGLISH    DRAMATISTS.  59 

eaves  him,  he  rarely  exhibits  their  hardness  of  heart. 
But  where  he  is  better  than  they,  it  seems  more  the 
result  of  instinctive  sentiment  than  any  moral  principle. 
His  volatility  makes  his  libertinism  shallow,  brisk,  and 
careless,  rather  than  hard  and  determined.  It  is  Belial 
with  the  friskiness  of  Puck.  He  was  as  bad  as  his 
nature  would  admit,  —  as  bad  as  a  mind  so  buoyant, 
appreheiisive,  and  susceptible  of  romantic  ideas  and  feel- 
ings, would  allow  him  to  be.  Shakspcare  did  not  yield 
to  these  corrupting  tendencies  of  his  day. 

It  is  generally  conceded  tiiat  Beaumont  and  Fletcher 
are  more  effeminate  and  dissolute  than  the  band  of  dra- 
matic authors  to  which  they  must  be  still  considered  to 
belong.  Their  minds  had  not  the  grasp,  tension,  insight, 
and  collected  energy,  which  characterized  others  who 
possessed  less  fertilitJ^  Their  tragic  Muse  carouses  in 
crime,  and  reels  out  upon  us  with  bloodshot  eyes  and 
dishevelled  tresses.  From  this  relaxation  of  intellect 
and  looseness  of  principle  comes,  in  a  great  degree,  their 
habit  of  disturbing  the  natural  relations  of  things  in  their 
representations  of  the  sterner  passions.  The  atmosphere 
01  their  tragedy  is  too  often  hot,  thick,  and  filled  with 
pestilential  vapors.  They  pushed  everything  to  excess. 
Their  weakness  is  most  evident  when  they  strain  the 
fiercest  after  power.  Their  strength  is  flushed,  bloated, 
spasmodic,  and  furious.  They  pitch  everything  in  a 
high  key,  approaching  to  a  scream.  In  what  has  been 
considered  the  most  imaginative  passage  in  their  whole 
works,  —  the  speech  of  Suetonius  to  his  soldiers  before 
battle,  in  Bonduca, —  the  lines  seem  torn  from  tie  throat 
■if  the  speaker :  — 

"  The  gods  of  Rome  fight  for  ye  ;  loud  Fame  rails  ye, 
Pitched  on  the  topless  Apennine,  and  blows 


BO  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

To  all  the  under  world,  all  nations, 

The  seas,  and  unfrequented  deserts  where  the  snow  dwells 

Wakens  the  ruined  monuments,  and  there, 

Where  nothing  hut  eternal  death  and  sleep  is, 

Informs  again  the  dead  bones  with  your  virtues." 

Even  their  hernism  has  generally  the  lightness  (r 
romance,  —  something  framed  from  fancy,  not  frora 
nature.  Their  heads  grow  giddy  among  the  true  horrors 
of  tragedy,  and  their  action  becomes  hurry  and  bustle 
instead  of  progress.  The  style  of  their  dramas,  where 
the  text  is  not  butchered  by  misprinting,  is  sweet,  col- 
loquial, voluble,  and  voluptuous,  but  rarely  condensed 
and  powerful.  It  has  been  finely  said,  in  respect  to 
their  agency  in  weakening  the  diction  of  the  drama,  that 
"  Shakspeare  had  bred  up  the  English  courser  of  the  air 
to  the  highest  wild  condition,  till  his  blood  became  fire, 
and  his  sinews  Nemean ;  Ben  Jonson  put  a  curb  into 
his  mouth,  subjected  him  to  strict  manege^  and  fed  him 
on  astringent  food,  that  hardened  his  nerves  to  rigidity ; 
but  our  two  authors  took  the  reins  off,  and  let  him  run 
loose  over  a  rank  soil,  relaxing  all  his  fibres  again." 
The  flush  and  hectic  heat  of  this  unbitted  racing  is  evei 
observable ;  but  the  bright  hoofs  of  the  courser  strike  off 
"ew  lightning  sparks,  and  he  is  a  long  time  arriving  at 
his  goal. 

The  Maid's  Tragedy  —  which  Hallam  gravely  says  is 
no  tragedy  for  maids,  and  one  which,  with  all  its  be£U- 
ties,  no  respectable  woman  can  read  —  contains  much 
exquisite  poetry  among  its  portentous  obscenities,  The 
character  of  Aspatia  is  the  model  of  a  love-lorn,  patien 
naiden, 

"  Whose  weak  brain  is  overladen 
With  the  sorrow  of  her  love  ; " 


OLD    ENGLISH    DRAMATISTS.  61 

Buch  as  we  meet,  in  a  degraded  state,  among  the  Ara- 
bella Dieways  of  old  novels.  Shirley  probably  refers 
to  the  vein  of  sentiment  touched  in  this  arama,  when  he 
says,  '•  Thou  shalt  meet,  almost  in  every  leaf,  a  soft, 
purling  passion,  or  spring  of  sorrow,  so  powerfully  WTOught 
high  by  the  tears  of  innocence  and  wronged  lovers,  it 
shall  persuade  thy  eyes  to  weep  into  the  stream,  and  yet 
smile  when  they  contribute  to  their  own  ruins."  Lysip- 
pus  thus  describes  Aspatia  :  — 

"  This  lady 
Walks  discontenteil,  with  her  watery  eyes 
Bent  on  the  earth  :  the  unfrequented  woods 
Are  her  delight ;  and  when  she  sees  a  bank 
Stuck  full  of  flowers,  she  with  a  sigh  will  tell 
Her  servants  what  a  pretty  place  it  were 
To  bury  lovers  in  ;  and  make  her  maids 
Pluck  'em,  and  strew  her  over  like  a  corse. 
She  carries  with  her  an  infectious  grief 
That  strikes  all  her  beholders :  she  will  sing' 
The  mour-nfulV si  things  (hat  ever  ear  hath  heard, 
And  sigh,  and  sing  again  ;  and  when  the  rest 
Of  our  young  ladies,  in  their  wanton  blood, 
Tell  mirthful  tales  in  course  that  fill  the  room 
With  laughter,  she  will  with  so  sad  a  look 
Bring  forth  a  story  of  tiie  silent  death 
Of  some  forsaken  virgin,  which  her  grief 
Will  put  in  such  a  phrase,  that,  ere  she  end, 
She  '11  send  them  weeping  one  by  one  away." 

Amintor,  in  this  play,  forsakes  Aspatia  and  marries 
Evadne,  at  the  command  of  the  king.  The  scene  in 
which  his  wife  avows  herself  the  mistress  of  the  monarch, 
and  tells  Amintor  that  her  marriage  with  him  is  merely 
one  of  convenience,  is  wrought  out  in  Fletcher's  most 
characteristic  manner.  That,  also,  in  which  the  brother 
of  Evadne  compels  her  to  promise  to  murder  the  king,  is 
spirited   and   powerfu       The    following  scene  between 


62  SSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

Aspatia  and  her  maidens  has  much  softness  and  richness 
o(  diction  and  sentiment :  — 

"ASPATIA.    ANTIPHILA.    OLYMPIAS. 

"Asp.  Come,  let's  be  sad,  my  girls. 
That  down-cast  of  thine  eye,  Olympias, 
Shows  a  fine  sorrow  ;  mark  Antiphila, 
Just  such  another  v;as  the  nympth  CEnone, 
When  Paris  brought  home  Helen :  now  a  tear, 
And  then  thou  art  a  piece  expressing  fully 
The  Carthage  queen,  when  from  a  cold  sea  rock, 
Full  with  her  sorrow,  she  tied  fast  her  eyes 
To  the  fair  Trojan  ships,  and  having  lost  them, 
Just  as  thine  eyes  do,  down  stole  a  tear,  Antiphiia. 
What  would  this  wench  do,  if  she  were  Aspatia  ? 
Here  she  would  stand,  till  some  more  pitying  god 
Turned  her  to  marble  :  't  is  enough,  my  wench  ; 
Show  me  tlie  piece  of  needle-work  you  wrought. 

"Ant.  Of  Ariadne,  Madam  ? 

"Asp.  Yes,  that  piece. 
This  should  be  Theseus,  h'  as  a  cozening  face ; 
You  meant  him  for  a  man  ? 

"Ant.  He  was  so,  Madam. 

"Asp.  Why,  then  't  is  well  enough.     Never  look  back, 
You  have  a  full  wind,  and  a  false  heart,  Theseus. 
Does  not  the  story  say,  his  keel  was  split. 
Or  his  masts  spent,  or  some  kind  rock  or  other 
Met  with  his  vessel? 

"Ant.  Not  as  I  remember. 

"Asp.  It  should  ha'  been  so  :  could  the  gods  know  this, 
And  not  of  all  their  number  raise  a  storm  ? 
But  they  are  all  as  ill.     This  false  smile  was  well  exprest ; 
Just  such  another  caught  me  ;   you  shall  not  go  so,  Antiphila; 
In  this  place  work  a  quicksand. 
And  over  it  a  shallow  smiling  water, 
And  his  ship  ploughing  it,  and  then  a  fear. 
Do  that  fear  to  the  life,  wench. 

"Ant.  'T  will  wrong  the  story. 

"Asp.  'T  will  make  the  story,  wronged  by  wanton  poets 
Live  long  and  be  believed  ;  but  where  's  the  lady  ? 

"Anl.  There,  Madam. 

"Asp.   Fie,  you  have  missed  it  here,  Antiphila. 


DLD    ENGLISH    DRABIATISTS.  63 

You  are  much  mistaken,  wench  ; 

These  colors  are  not  dull  and  pale  enough, 

To  show  a  soul  so  full  of  misery 

As  this  sad  lady's  was  ;  do  it  by  me, 

Do  it  again  by  me,  the  lost  Aspatia, 

And  you  shall  find  all  true  but  the  wild  island. 

I  stand  upon  the  sea-beach  now,  and  think 

Mine  arms  thus,  and  mine  hair  blown  with  the  wind, 

Wild  as  that  desert,  and  let  all  about  me 

Tell  that  I  am  forsaken  ;  do  my  face 

(If  thou  hadst  ever  feeling  of  a  sorrow) 

Thus,  thus,  Antiphila  ;  strive  to  make  me  looa 

Like  Sorrow's  monument ;  and  the  trees  about  me> 

Let  them  be  dry  and  leaveless  ;  let  the  rocks 

Groan  loith  continual  surges,  and  behind  me 

Make  all  a  desolation  ;  look,  look,  wenches, 

A  miserable  life  of  this  poor  picture. 

"Objm.  Dear  Madam! 

"Asp.  I  have  done  ;  sit  down,  and  let  us 
Upon  that  point  fix  all  our  eyes,  that  point  there  ; 
Make  a  dull  silence,  till  you  feel  a  sudden  sadness 
Give  us  new  souls." 

l*hiaster  has  much  romantic  sweetness,  and  deserv- 
idly  takes  a  high  rank  among  the  joint  creations  of  our 
LUthors.  Bellario  is  especially  beautiful.  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher's  fair  and  fine  women  have  been  considered 
models  of  womanhood  by  many  critics,  and  by  some 
placed  above  those  of  Shakspeare,  —  as  if  their  best 
delineations  of  passion  or  constancy  approached  Juliet 
or  Cordelia !  Shakspeare's  women  are  ideal ;  theirs, 
romantic.  The  following  passage,  in  which  Bellario 
discovered  to  be  a  woman,  tells  the  story  of  her  ove  foi 
Philaster,  is  exceedingly  sweet  and  touching  :  — 

"  My  father  would  oft  speak 
Your  worth  and  virtue,  and  as  I  did  grow 
More  and  more  apprehensive,  I  did  thirst 
To  see  the  man  so  praised :  but  yet  all  this 
Was  but  a  maiden  longing ;  to  be  1'  st 


64  ESSAYS    AND   REVIEWS. 

As  soon  as  found  ;  till,  sitting  in  my  windo'^F, 

Printing  my  thoughts  in  lawn,  I  saw  a  god 

I  thought,  (but  it  was  you,)  enter  our  gates  ; 

My  blood  flew  out,  and  back  again  as  fast 

As  I  had  puft  it  forth  and  sucked  it  in 

Like  breath  ;  then  was  I  called  away  in  haste 

To  entertain  you.     Never  was  a  man 

Heaved  from  a  sheep-cot  to  a  sceptre,  raised 

So  high  in  thoughts  as  I  ;  you  left  a  kiss 

Upon  these  lips  then,  which  I  mean  to  keep 

From  you  forever  ;  I  did  hear  you  talk 

Far  above  singing  ;  after  you  were  gone, 

I  grew  acquainted  with  my  heart,  and  searched 

What  stirred  it  so.     Alas !  I  found  it  love. 

Yet  far  from  lust,  for  could  I  but  have  lived 

In  presence  of  you,  I  had  had  my  end. 

For  this  I  did  delude  my  noble  father 

With  a  feigned  pilgrimage,  and  drest  myseh 

In  habit  of  a  boy,  and,  for  I  knew 

My  birth  no  match  for  you,  I  was  past  hope 

Of  having  you.     And  understanding  well, 

That  when  I  made  discovery  of  my  sex, 

I  could  not  stay  with  you,  I  made  a  vow 

By  all  the  most  religious  things  a  maid 

Could  call  together,  never  to  be  known. 

Whilst  there  was  hope  to  hide  me  from  men's  ej'es, 

For  other  than  I  seemed  ;  that  I  might  ever 

Abide  with  you :  then  sate  I  by  the  fount 

Where  first  you  took  me  up." 

A  King  and  No  King  is  another  play  in  which  Beau 
:nont  and  Fletcher's  characteristic  faults  and  beauties 
lire  displayed.  Arbaces  is  well  delineated,  and  so  is 
Bessus,  —  both  braggarts  indifferent  stations.  Hallam 
and  Hazlitt  concur  in  admiring  this  drama.  Thierry 
and  Theodoret  contains  two  female  characters,  Brunhalt 
and  Ordella,  representing  the  two  phases  under  which 
Fletcher  commonly  delineated  women.  The  latter,  Lamb 
pronounces,  we  think  incorrectly,  to  be  "the  most  perfect 
idea  of  the  female  heroic  character,  next  to  Calanlha,  in 


OLD   ENGLISH    DRABIATISTS.  65 

The  Broken  Heart,  of  Ford,  that  has  been  embodied  in 
fiction."  The  former  is  a  monstrosity,  compounded  of 
fiend  and  beast.  Valentinian  is  one  of  the  best  tragedies 
in  the  collection,  though  the  plot  is  absurdly  managed. 
There  are  three  songs  in  it  of  peculiar  merit,  one  relating 
to  love,  another  to  wine,  and  a  third,  full  of  solemn 
beauty,  addressed  to  sleep,  which  w'e  extract.  Valen- 
tinian is  brought  in  sick,  in  a  chair,  and  the  song  is  intro- 
duced as  an  expression  of  the  deep  and  silent  love  of 
Eudoxia,  the  empress,  who  leans  over  him. 

"  Care-charming  Sleep,  thou  easer  of  all  woes,  — 
Brother  to  Death,  sweetly  thyself  dispose 
On  this  afflicted  prince:  fall  like  a  cloud 
In  gentle  showers  ;  give  nothing  that  is  loud 
Or  painful  to  his  slumbers  ;  —  easy,  sweet. 
And  as  a  purling  stream,  thou  son  of  night, 
Pass  by  his  troubled  senses  :  —  sing  his  pain, 
ijike  hollow  murmuring  wind,  or  silver  rain : 
Into  this  prince  gently,  oh,  gently  slide. 
And  kiss  him  into  slumbers  like  a  bride !  " 

The  scene  which  succeeds  this  reminds  us  of  the  last 
in  King  John.  The  ravings  of  the  poisoned  emperor, 
however,  though  clothed  in  a  drapery  of  similar  imagery, 
have  not  the  intense  grandeur  of  the  death' scene  of 
Shakspeare's  monarch. 

Fletcher's  comedies  are  light,  airy,  fluttering,  viva 
cious,  full  of  diverting  situations,  and  often  sparkling 
with  fancy  and  wit ;  but  still  superficial  and  farcical,  com- 
pared with  Shakspeare's  and  Jonson's.  They  have  none 
of  that  intensity  of  humor,  little  of  that  substantial  life, 
w^hich  we  demand  in  English  comedy.  The  gentleman, 
as  understood  by  Fletcher,  is  of  a  different  type  from 
that  indicated  by  old  Decker.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher 
according  to  Dryden,  understood  and  imitated  much  bet 

VOL.  II.  5 


t»5  ESSAYS    AND   REVIEWS 

ter  than  Shakspeare  "  the  conversation  of  gentlemeri 
whose  wild  debaucheries,  and  quickness  of  wit  in  repar 
tees,  no  poet  can  ever  paint  as  they  have  done."  We 
trust  that  they  never  will  be  equalled  in  this  department 
of  character.  Their  "  studiously  protracted  "  indecency, 
and  their  command  of  all  the  gibberish  and  slang  of  lust 
and  vulgarity,  make  their  comedies  curious  libels  on  the 
t'.ste  and  morals  of  their  audiences.  Fletcher  could  not 
escape  from  the  foul  imp  that  had  taken  possession  of 
his  imagination,  even  in  The  Faithful  Shepherdess, 
which,  with  all  its  poetic  beauty  and  pastoral  sweetness, 
is  still  so  defiled  in  parts  as  to  merit  Schlegel's  ironical 
comment,  of  its  being  an  immodest  defence  of  modesty. 
The  tone  and  pitch  of  Fletcher's  mind,  as  compared  with 
Milton's,  may  be  seen  in  the  contrast  between  The 
Faithful  Shepherdess  and  Comus.  Milton  is  indebted 
to  Fletcher  for  the  suggestion  of  his  subject,  but  this 
debt  is  paid  a  thousand-fold  in  the  treatment  of  it. 

Of  Massinger  and  Ford  we  have  space  to  say  but 
little.  Hazlitt  remarks,  that  "  Massinger  is  harsh  and 
crabbed.  Ford,  finical  and  fastidious ;  "  and  that  he  can- 
not find  much  in  their  works,  but  "  a  display  of  great 
strength  or  subtlety  of  understanding,  inveteracy  of  pur- 
pose, and  perversity  of  will."  Hunt  accuses  them  of 
beginning  that  corruption  of  the  dramatic  style  into 
prose,  "  which  came  to  its  head  in  Shirley."  Hallam, 
on  the  contrary,  ranks  Massinger  as  a  tragic  writer  sec- 
ond only  to  Shakspeare ;  but  Hallam  is  often  strangely 
infelicitous  in  his  judgments  on  the  old  poets.  The 
truth  seems  to  be,  that  Massinger's  spirit  was  unimpas- 
sioned,  compared  with  his  great  contemporaries ;  his 
imagination  was  not  pervaded  by  that  fiery  essence  which 
gives  to  their  style  its  figurative  condensation,  its  abrup 


OLD    ENGLISH    DRAMATISTS  67 

mrns,  and  its  quick,  startling  flights.  His  mind  was 
more  gentle,  equable,  and  reflective.  There  is  a  majestic 
sadness  in  Massinger,  —  an  indication  T)f  great  energies 
preyed  upon  and  weakened  by  inward  sorrow, —  a  stifled 
anguish  of  spirit,  —  which  seem  to  point  to  unfortunate 
circumstances  in  his  life.  There  is  every  reason  to 
believe  that  he  was  a  disappointed  man,  though  little 
of  his  biography  is  known.  He  was  born  in  1584.  His 
father  w^as  a  gentleman  in  the  service  of  the  Earl  of 
Pembroke.  At  the  age  of  eighteen  he  was  sent  to 
Oxford,  and  after  residing  there  four  years,  left  without 
taking  a  degree,  and  went  to  London,  where  he  gained 
a  precarious  subsistence  as  a  draniatic  writer.  Anthony 
Wood  says,  that  while  at  Oxford  he  "  gave  his  mind 
more  to  poetry  and  romance,  for  about  four  years  or 
more,  than  to  logic  and  philosophy,  which  he  ought  to 
have  done,  being  patronized  to  that  end."  This  shows 
that  he  offended  a  patron.  Massinger's  spirit  was  inde- 
pendent, though  not  fiery,  and  probably  would  not  brook 
any  exercise  of  power  which  conti-olled  his  disposition. 
There  runs  through  his  plays  an  almost  republican 
hatred  of  arbitrary  rule.  As  a  man,  Massinger  seems  to 
have  been  much  esteemed  for  his  virtues.  The  panegyi 
ists  of  his  plays  address  to  him  terms  almost  of  endear 
ment ;  he  is  their  "  beloved,"  "  dear,"  "  deserving," 
"  long  known,"  and  "  long  loved  friend."  As  a  dram- 
atist, however,  though  his  plays  appear  to  have  been  suc- 
cessful, and  written  at  the  rate  of  two  or  three  a  year,  he 
never  raised  himself  above  the  poor  gentleman.  Rey- 
nolds and  Morton,  at  the  close  of  the  last  century,  gen- 
erally obtained  five  hundred  pounds  for  their  five  act 
Carces  and  sentimental  dramas ,  Massinger,  in  his  day, 
eould  not  hope  to  average  more  than  fifteen  for  his  com  ■ 


68  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

edies  and  tragedies.  He  is  known  to  have  written,  in 
all,  thirty-seven  plays,  of  which  sixteen  and  the  fragment 
of  another  are  extant.  Eleven  of  them,  in  manuscript, 
were  in  the  possession  of  a  Mr.  Warburton,  whose  cook 
found  them  very  serviceable  as  waste  paper,  in  the  pros- 
ecution of  culinary  operations. 

Massinger  died  on  the  17th  of  March,  1640,  at  the 
age  of  fifty-six.  According  to  Langbaine,  he  went  to 
bed  in  good  health,  and  was  found  dead  in  the  morning. 
He  was  buried  in  the  church-yard  of  St.  Saviour's.  No 
stone  marks  the  place  of  his  interment ;  and  "  the  only 
memorial  of  his  mortality,"  says  Gifford,  "  is  given  with 
a  pathetic  brevity,  which  accords  but  too  well  with  the 
obscure  and  humble  passages  of  his  life  :  '  March  20, 
1639-40,  buried  Philip  Massinger,  a  stranger.^  " 

Massinger  did  not  write  so  closely  to  the  heart  of 
things  as  some  of  his  contemporaries.  His  sweet  and 
serious  mind  was  better  fitted  for  description  and  con- 
templation than  for  representation.  Possessing  neither 
wit  nor  humor  in  any  eminent  degree,  he  had  not  that 
quick,,  joyous  sympathy  with  external  things,  which  sent 
the  souls  of  many  of  his  brethren  running  genially  out 
to  animate  other  forms  of  being.  His  characters  are 
framed  rather  in  the  region  of  the  understanding  and 
the  moral  sentiments,  than  conceived  by  the  imagina- 
tion ;  and  though  often  morally  beautiful,  have  not  the 
free,  flowing,  substantial  life,  which  we  require  in  dra 
matic  representation.  The  resistance  of  virtue  to  all 
temptations  is  his  favorite  theme  ;  but  the  temptations 
are  often  contrived  out  of  the  natural  course  of  things, 
and  exist  rather  as  possibilities  to  the  intellect  than 
realities  to  the  imagination.  Had  he  possessed  a  little 
more  of  spontaneous  creative  energy,  he   would  h'lve 


OLD    ENGLISH    DRAMATISTS.  69 

been  a  great  dramatist.  Pis  reflective  habi\  of  mind 
tended  at  once  to  restrain  his  passionateness  within  the 
bounds  of  a  preconceived  order,  and  to  dim  that  keen 
vision  by  which  the  poet  penetrates  into  the  inmost 
recesses  of  the  soul,  and  lays  open  the  finest  veins  of 
thought  and  sentiment.  Still,  Massinger  is  one  of  the 
most  original  of  the  old  dramatists,  and  his  plays,  though 
they  do  not  reach  the  heights  nor  strike  the  depths  of 
some  others,  are  sustained  throughout  with  more  skill 
and  level  power.  His  style  has  been  long  celebrated 
for  its  sweetness  and  majesty  of  march,  and  its  free- 
dom from  "  violent  metaphors  and  harsh  constructions." 
"  He  is  read,"  says  Lamb,  "  with  composure  and  placid 
delight."  His  plays  exhibit  a  more  pervading  religious 
feeling  than  those  of  his  contemporaries  ;  and,  strange  to 
add,  a  coarseness  of  expression,  in  some  parts,  more 
vulgar  and  disgusting  than  the  same  quality  in  others, 
because  utterly  wanting  in  wit  and  fancy.  His  inde- 
cencies seem  coldly  and  atrociously  contrived  in  the 
understanding,  without  the  concurrence  of  his  other 
powers,  and  only  introduced  in  obedience  to  "  the  spirit 
of  the  age."  They  are  most  essentially  of  the  mud, 
muddy.  They  affect  us  like  lewdness  muttered  from 
the  lips  of  age  ;  and  his  jests  must  be  considered,  on  the 
whole,  more  tragical  than  his  pathos.  We  never  gaze 
on  his  fine  serious  face,  as  it  looks  out  so  mournfully 
from  the  canvas,  without  feeling  how  sad  and  degrad- 
ing, how  replete  with  that  self-contempt  "  bitterer  to 
^rink  than  blood,"  must  have  been  to  him  the  task  of 
coining  vile  indecencies,  and  bespattering  his  creations 
with  the  phraseology  o''  tne  fish -market.  It  is  due  to 
Massinger  to  say,  that  his  coarseness  is  introduced, 
rather  than  woven,  into  his  drama,  and  that  the  string 


70  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

which  binds  the  seraph  to  the  corpse  can  be  easily 
severed. 

Massinger's  most  powerful  male  characters  are  Sforza, 
in  The  Duke  of  Milan,  Sir  Giles  Overreach,  in  the 
New  Way  to  pay  Old  Debts,  and  Luke,  in  The  City 
Madam.  The  second  of  these  still  keeps  the  stage,  an] 
the  third  sometimes  appears  in  a  modern  version,  called 
Riches.  Luke  is  a  fine  villain,  forcibly  conceived  and 
strongly  sustained. 

John  Ford,  a  scholar  and  gentleman,  occupies  a  prom- 
inent place  in  English  dramatic  literature,  as  a  poet  of 
pathos  and  sentiment.  His  most  splendid  successes  are 
in  the  handling  of  subjects  which  are,  in  themselves, 
unwritten  tragedies,  —  the  deepest  distresses  of  the  heart 
and  the  terrible  aberrations  of  the  passions.  His  works 
make  a  sad,  deep,  and  abiding  impression  on  the  mind, 
though  hardly  one  that  is  pleasing  or  healthy.  He  had 
little  of  that  stalwart  strength  of  mind,  and  heedless 
daring,  which  characterize  the  earlier  dramatists.  Like 
Massinger,  he  is  deficient  in  wit  and  humor,  and  like 
Massinger  resorts  to  dull  indecencies  as  substitutes.  His 
sentiment  is  soft,  rich,  and  sensuous,  informed  by  a 
mild,  melancholy  heroism,  often  inexpressibly  touching, 
and  expressed  in  a  fine,  fluent  diction,  which  melts  into 
the  mind  like  music.  The  celebrated  contention  of  a 
bird  and  a  musician,  described  in  The  Lover's  Melan- 
choly, is  a  specimen  of  his  grace  and  sweetness  of 
mind.  In  Lamb's  opinion,  it  almost  equals  the  strife  it 
celebrates. 

Lamb,  in  a  note  to  the  last  scene  of  The  Broken 
Heart,  ranks  Ford  in  the  first  order  of  poets.  "He 
sought  for  sublimity,"  he  says,  "  not  by  parcels,  in  met- 
aphors auvl  visible  images,  but  directly,  where  sho  has 


OLD    ENGLISH    DRAMATISTS.  71 

her  full  residence  in  the  heart  of  man ;  in  the  actions 
and  sufferings  of  tlie  greatest  minds."  We  do  not  think 
this  is  the  impression  that  his  works  make  as  a  whole ; 
it  is  true  only  of  the  high-wrought  grandeur  of  detached 
scenes.  Ford,  in  manners  and  character,  seems  to  have 
been,  like  Jacques,  melancholy  and  gentleman-like. 
Little  is  known  regarding  his  life.  He  is  supposed  to 
have  been  a  lawyer,  and  seems  to  have  had  a  dislike  to 
the  reputation  of  a  dramatist,  in  so  far  as  it  confounded 
him  with  those  who  were  authors  by  profession  ;  for,  as 
Dr.  Farmer  says  in  reference  to  Shakspeare,  with  ex- 
quisite meanness  of  expression,  "  play-writing,  in  this 
poet's  time,  was  hardly  considered  a  creditable  employ." 
Ford  probably  had  something  of  the  vanity  which  Con- 
greve  manifested  to  Voltaire,  in  desiring  to  be  considered 
rather  as  a  gentleman  than  as  a  dramatist.  There  was 
much  of  the  "  nice  man "  in  his  disposition.  He  evi- 
dently belonged  not  to  the  school  of  "  irregular  "  genius, 
so  far  as  regarded  worldly  reputation ;  and  we  can 
imagine  what  disdain  would  have  shot  from  the  burning 
eyes  of  Marlowe,  had  that  sublime  vagabond  lived  to  see 
a  dramatist  studious  of  conventional  decorum,  and  fas- 
tidious in  small  things.  A  contemporary  satire.  The 
Lines,  quoted  by  Gifford,  has  a  thrust  at  Ford,  which 
illustrates  as  well  as  caricatures  his  peculiarity  :  — 

"  Deep  in  a  dump,  John  Ford  by  himself  gat, 
With  folded  arms  and  melancholy  hat." 

He  wrote  sixteen  plays,  four  of  which,  in  manuscript, 
shared,  with  eleven  of  Massinger's,  the  distinguished 
honor  of  being  consumed  by  Mr.  Warburton's  remorse- 
less cook,  for  waste-paper.  He  seems  to  have  retired  to 
the  country  or  the  grave,  it  is  uncertain  which,  shortly 


72  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

before  the  breaking  out  of  the  civil  wars.     The  date  of 
his  last  published  play,  The  Lady's  Trial,  is  1639. 

In  this  hurried  survey  of  some  of  the  Old  English 
Dramatists,  we  have  not  been  able  to  do  more  thar, 
faintly  indicate  their  genius  and  individual  peculiarities. 
It  would  be  impossible  in  our  limited  space  to  do  full 
justice  to  the  merits  of  each.  Indeed,  though  separated 
by  individual  differences,  and  influenced  by  the  changes 
which  came  over  the  spirit  of  their  age,  they  have  all  z. 
general  resemblance.  Fletcher  and  Ford,  perhaps,  best 
indicate  the  gradual  relaxation  of  the  old  sturdy  strength, 
—  that  passage  of  comedy  from  humorous  character  into 
diverting  incident,  of  tragedy  from  the  sterner  into  the 
softer  passions,  —  that  gradual  weakening  of  poetic  dic- 
tion by  too  strong  an  infusion  of  sweetness,  —  which 
distinguish  an  age  slowly  sinking  from  the  region  of 
heroic  ideas  into  those  merely  romantic.  But  still,  all 
these  writers  have,  more  or  less,  that  depth,  daring, 
vitality,  comprehension,  objectiveness, — that  quick  ob- 
servation of  external  life  and  nature,  and  that  ready 
interpretation  of  both  by  inward  light,  —  that  variea 
power  and  melody  of  versification,  at  times  so  soft  and 
lingering,  bending  beneath  its  rich  freight  of  delicious 
fancies,  at  others  so  fierce  and  headlong,  glowing  in 
every  part  with  the  fire  of  passion,  —  that  wide  sway 
over  the  heart's  deepest  and  most  delicate  emotions, — 
and  that  thoroughly  English  cast  of  nature,  —  which 
associate  them  all  in  the  mind,  as  belonging  to  one  era 
of  literature,  and  partaking  of  the  general  character 
stamped  upon  it.  It  would  be  impossible  to  point  out  a 
class  of  authors,  who  have  appeared  in  any  of  the  AuguS' 
tan  ages  of  letters,  more  essentially  brave  and  strong,—' 
any  who  have  spoken  the  language  of  thought  and  pas 


OLD    ENGLISH    DRAM  (LTISTS.  73 

sion  more  directly  from  the  heart  and  brain,  —  any  who 
more  despised  obtaining  fame  and  producing  effects  by 
elaborate  refinements  -nd  petty  brilliancies,  —  any  who 
have  stouter  muscle  ana  bone.  Whenever  English  liter- 
ature has  been  timid  and  creeping,  whenever  the  natural 
expression  of  emotion  has  been  debased  by  a  feeble  or 
feverish  "  poetic  diction,"  it  has  been  to  the  old  drama- 
tists that  men  have  recurred  for  exa^^nples  of  a  more 
courageous  spirit  and  a  nobler  style 


ROMANCE   OF   RASCALITY. 

That  this  is  a  great  world  is  a  maxim  forced  upon 
the  attention  by  the  moral  aspect  of  every-day  events. 
lit  is  especially  apparent,  when  we  consider  the  room  it 
affords  for  the  operations  of  knaves.  The  great  brother- 
hood of  rogues,  who  live  by  cheating  and  corrupting  the 
species,  now  occupy  some  of  the  most  important  posts  in 
society,  science,  and  letters,  and,  as  missionaries  of  the 
devil,  are  threading  every  avenue  to  the  heart  and  brain 
of  the  community.  Sin,  every  day,  takes  out  a  patent 
for  some  new  invention.  One  of  its  latest  and  most 
influential  is  the  Romance  of  Rascality.  To  a  man 
who  knows  what  it  is  to  have  his  pocket  picked,  or  a 
Icnife  insinuated  into  his  ribs,  there  may  appear  little 
that  is  romantic  in  the  operation ;  but  to  a  large  and 
increasing  portion  of  society  it  is  otherwise.  Thieves 
and  cat-throats  have  come  to  be  considered  the  most 
important  and  interesting  of  men,  and  virtuous  medi- 
ocrity to  be  valuable  only  as  affording  them  subjects  for 
experiment.  There  is  a  certain  piquant  shamelessness 
a  peculiarly  ingenious  dishonesty,  in  some  of  the  forms 
of  literary  chicane,  which  nothing  can  equal  in  impu- 
dence ;  for  it  is  practically  assumed  that  the  final  cause 
of  human  society  is  the  provision  of  a  brilliant  theatre 
for  the  exploits  of  its  outcasts. 

At  one  time,  it  was  considered  settled  that  the  domain 
pf  ideality  wa»  closed   to  vulgar  criminals,   and    tha 


ROMANCE    OF    RASCALITY.  75 

footpads  and  windpipe-slitters  had  no  pretensions  to  (hft 
honors  of  romance.  For  persons  to  act  as  heroes  of 
stirring  adventures  and  lovers  of  beautiful  women,  (he 
rovelist  was  compelled  to  rely  on  gentlemen,  who  did 
nothing  in  the  way  of  theft  and  murder  which  the 
'•  moral  sense  "  of  the  world  did  not  approve.  If  he 
introduced  characters  who  carried  matters  with  a  high 
hand,  he  availed  himself  of  respectable  generals  and 
statesmen,  men  who  might  ruin  an  empire,  but  who 
would  not  condescend  to  relieve  a  traveller  of  his  purse 
or  his  brains.  In  all  cases  he  never  selected  his  heroes 
and  heroines  from  the  common  herd  of  profligates  and 
criminals,  or  sought  eminence  by  perching  himself  on 
the  gallows.  But  now  it  appears  that  the  old  class  of 
romancers  were  deficient  in  comprehension.  It  has  been 
discovered  that  everything  in  nature  and  life  has  its 
poetic  side;  that  it  is  foreign  to  the  spirit  of  the  age  for 
the  Republic  of  Letters  to  tolerate  any  of  that  aristo- 
cratic exclusiveness  which  refuses  the  name  of  hero  to 
the  inmate  of  the  jail  and  the  occupant  of  the  gibbet. 
Rascality  is  now  the  rage,  and  asserts  its  existence  with 
an  emphasis.  It  has  forced  the  passages  leading  to  the 
temple  of  fame,  and  breaks  into  literature  as  it  was  wont 
to  break  into  houses.  Things  heretofore  considered 
incapable  of  apology  or  adornment,  the  fixed  facts  of 
guilt  and  crime,  which  charity  itself  doomed  to  infamy 
cr  oblivion,  are  now  thrust  into  our  faces,  candied  over 
.vith  panegyric,  and  challenging  our  respect.  The  thief 
and  the  cut-purse,  the  murderer  and  the  incendiary, 
strut  and  swagger  in  the  sunny  land  of  romance.  It  is 
a  saturnalia  of  complacent  blackguardism  and  vulgar 
villany,  tricked  out  in  the  cast-off  frippery  of  Sir  Chark-s 
Jrandison  and  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw.    It  is  Safin  grown 


IB  ESSAYS    AND    KK VIEWS. 

sentimental,  and  cov^ering  his  cloven  foot  in  a  satin  &hp 
per.  And  from  the  whole  comes  a  complex  fragrance, 
made  up  of  sulphur  and  lavender,  hot  pitch  and  eau  de 
Cologne. 

According  to  the  philosophy  obtaining  among  the 
romancers  of  rascality,  the  fact  that  an  object  creates 
physical  disgust  is  the- reason  why  we  should  take  it  to 
our  arms ;  the  fact  that  a  man  excites  moral  reprobation 
is  his  claim  upon  our  sympathy.  That  the  world  is 
sadly  out  of  order,  is  proved  from  the  fact  that  all  the 
wise  men  are  shut  up  in  insane  asylums,  and  all  the 
heroes  are  clanking  fetters  or  pounding  stone  in  prisons. 
The  real  virtue  of  society  is  to  be  found  in  the  victims 
of  "  social  arrangements  ;"  and  the  true  objects  of  love 
are  those  whom  the  law  hates  and  persecutes.  What 
we  call  law  and  order,  are  other  names  for  injustice  and 
oppression.  Sin  is  a  word  by  which  bigots  express  their 
dislike  of  great  souls  and  free  opinions. 

Again,  th^se  gentlemen  are  champions  for  what  they 
are  pleased  to  call  nature,  both  in  thought  and  conduct. 
They  desire  to  have  this  nature  presented  in  its  proper 
nudity,  arrayed  in  no  conventional  robes,  shining  with 
no  rhetorical  varnish.  The  taste  which  would  dictate 
discrimination  in  the  selection  of  objects  for  romantic 
treatment,  and  respect  the  natural  relations  of  things, 
they  spurn  at  as  effeminate.  It  must  be  conceded  that 
they  have  brought  round  a  large  number  of  readers  to 
their  views.  Let  an  author's  brain  teem  with  monsters, 
»nd  his  progeny  are  soon  cradled  in  the  bosom,  or 
dandled  in  the  arms,  of  an  "  enlightened  '  public.  Let 
nim  pile  horror  upon  horror,  revel  in  the  description  of 
stale  enormities,  draw  aside  the  "  decent  drapery  "  which 
covers  the  nakedness  of  depravity,  and  have  a  pool  of 


ROMANCE    OF.  RASCALITY.  'H 

olood  running  and  glistening  through  his  compositions., 
and  there  are  people  who  will  throw  up  their  caps  in 
admiration  of  his  "  power,"  and  be  voluble  in  praise  of 
his  "  insight."  A  literary  reputation  may  thus  be 
acquired  by  a  judicious  mixture  of  horror  and  stupid- 
ity, and  afford,  likewise,  a  fine  medium  through  which 
all  the  rogues  of  the  nation  may  communicate  with  all 
the  gulls.  That  the  simple  and  the  foolish  should  be 
victimized  by  the  knowing,  is  the  notion  which  a 
romancer  of  rascality  entertains  of  preestablished  har- 
mony and  the  fitness  of  things. 

The  great  compensation  for  all  the  evil  which  this 
kind  of  literature  produces  is  found  in  the  fact  that  it  is 
cheap.  The  cheapness  must  be  acknowledged.  By  the 
progress  of  science  and  improvement,  the  most  economi- 
cal or  miserly  of  beings  is  enabled  to  gratify  his  taste  for 
mental  degradation,  and  his  penchant  for  moral  ruin,  at 
the  extremely  low  price  of  ninepence.  Who  will  not 
commit  suicide,  when  poison  is  cheap  ?  What  keeps 
people  from  blowing  out  their  brains,  but  the  high  price 
of  pistols  ?  Formerly,  it  seems,  self-destruction  was  a 
luxury  to  be  enjoyed  only  by  the  rich,  but  now  it  is 
placed  within  the  means  of  the  humblest.  Formerly, 
blasphemy  was  held  at  high  rates,  and  few  could  indulge 
m  scoffing  but  the  purchaser  of  Voltaire  and  D'Holbach; 
now  this  elegant  recreation  of  pride  can  be  bought  for  a 
penny.  That  great  doctrine  of  equalitj' ,  for  wiiich  cer- 
tain old  gentlemen  in  '76  perilled  their  honor,  lives,  and 
fortunes,  has,  it  seems,  been  imperfectly  understood  until 
(he  present  favored  age.  They  fought  for  an  equality  in 
evil  as  well  as  good.  They  poured  out  their  blood,  that 
the  people  might  have  perdition  and  death  at  low  prices. 
They  fought  against  monopolies  in  stupidity,  blasphemy. 


78  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

immorality,  and  damnation.  Their  most  lesounding 
declamation  thundered  against  the  enormity  of  allow- 
ing the  rich  precedence  in  catching  at  the  delectable 
baits  of  sin,  and  not  giving  the  poor  man  an  opportunity 
of  having  Satan's  hook  fast  fixed  in  his  own  bleeding 
gills.  They  wished  to  elevate  the  laboring  classes,  but 
it  was  by  allowing  them  a  fair  competition  with  the  lazy 
classes,  in  the  great  object  of  getting  hanged.  The  force 
of  this  argument  for  cheap  wretchedness  and  ruin  will 
depend  much  on  the  natural  disposnion  of  those  to 
whom  it  is  addressed.  Some  men,  doubtless,  have  a 
theory  of  human  life,  in  which  happiness  is  synonymous 
with  lowness,  and  a  journey  on  the  road  to  ruin  is  con- 
sidered a  performance  of  the  whole  duty  of  man.  On 
such  a  road  it  is  important  to  have  cheap  fares,  in  order 
to  increase  the  travel. 

It  may  be  objected,  by  the  patrons  of  this  cheap 
Romance  of  Rascality,  that  criminals  appear  in  legiti- 
mate romance  as  much  as  they  do  in  rascally  romance, 
and  that  it  is  unfair  to  stigmatize  their  department  of 
hction  as  preeminently  wicked.  It  must  be  confessed 
that  a  line  of  distinction  should  here  be  drawn  between 
romances  which  have  villanous  characters,  and  romances 
of  which  villany  is  the  characteristic.  A  dramatist,  poet, 
or  romancer,  is  doubtless  to  accommodate  his  creations 
to  the  truth  of  things.  His  fictions  should  have  a  basis 
of  reality,  and  present  a  true  exhibition  of  life,  actual  or 
possible.  Now,  it  is  unfortunately  true,  that  no  exhibi- 
lion  of  life  can  be  accurate,  unless  it  exhibits  a  large 
portion  of  rascality  ;  for  rascality  is  an  important  element 
of  life.  The  romancer,  perhaps,  might  be  justified  in 
making  most  of  his  characters  more  or  less  wicked,  with 
out  running  the  risk  of  having  his  production  condemned 


ROMANCE    OF    RASCALITV.  79 

as  unnatural.  But  there  is  a  great  difference  between 
exliibiting  criminals  as  they  are  in  themselves,  and 
e.xJiibiting  criminals  as  proper  objects  of  esteem  ano 
moral  approbavion.  In  the  first  case,  a  true  exhibition 
of  life  is  given,  and  tru  h  has  no  adulterous  connection 
with  immorality ;  in  the  other  case,  a  false  exhibition  of 
life  is  given,  and  falsehood  is  but  another  namo  for 
immorality.  Provided  a  writer  respects  the  natural 
relations  of  things,  there  is  no  danger  in  his  delineations 
of  criminality.  Shakspeare's  lago,  Scott's  Rashleigh 
Osbaldistone,  Goethe's  Mephistopheles,  convey  no  pleas- 
ant impressions  of  sin  and  the  devil.  They  rather 
increase  our  natural  abhorrence  of  evil,  by  increasing  our 
knowledge  of  its  essence.  But  if  lago  were  so  exhibited 
that  malignity  and  murder  fastened  on  our  heroic  sym- 
pathies, and  we  sided  with  him  against  his  victims,  the 
poet  of  nature  would  have  been  a  bungler  in  character- 
ization, as  well  as  a  knave  in  ethics.  It  is  the  same 
with  the  others.  Their  renown  comes  from  their  truth ; 
and  morality  of  effect  always  results  from  truth  of  repre- 
sentation. It  is  needless  to  demand  that  a  poet  or  nov 
elist  should  have  a  moral  purpose  in  his  delineations. 
All  we  can  require  is,  that  he  should  have  a  healthy 
imagination,  capable  of  perceiving  or  creating  objects  in 
accordance  with  their  natural  relations ;  that  he  should 
avoid  luaking  monstrosities,  by  refusing  to  connect  qual- 
ities in  romance  which  have  no  connection,  actual  or 
possible,  in  life  ;  and  that  he  should  -espect  the  laws  of 
the  things  he  describes.  Such  a  writer  may  let  the 
morality  of  his  work  take  care  of  itself.  It  cannot  be 
immoral,  unless  it  is  false  or  one-sided.  Guilt  and  mis« 
ery  are  twins,  and  should  not  hi  separated  in  romance 
any  more  than  in  life. 


S(V  ESSAYS   AND   REVIEWS. 

In  English  literature,  the  poet  who  has  done  most  in 
his  writings  to  disturb  the  natural  relations  of  things, 
and  give  to  sympathy  an  unnatural  direction,  is  Lord 
Byron.  The  strength  of  his  genius  is  shown  in  his  suc- 
cess in  making  rascality  fashionable.  He  awakened  the 
sensibility  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  for  misanhropic 
rakes,  genteel  robbers,  and  sentimental  pirates.  He 
preached  that  the  height  of  wisdom  was  hatred  of  man- 
kind, and  that  all  the  heroism  of  society  was  among  its 
outcasts.  This  he  did  with  such  force  of  passion  and 
splendor  of  imagination,  that  common  sense  was  baffled 
in  every  attempt  to  reach  him  by  invective  or  ridici-Je. 
Ascending  higher,  he  at  last  taught  that  heroism  con- 
sisted in  opposition  to  law,  — particularly  to  that  which 
originated  in  the  skies,  —  and  that  man's  greatness  con- 
sisted in  resolutely  bearing  the  tortures  of  the  damned. 
This  was  lifting  rascality  to  the  subhme ;  and  many 
ambitious  gentlemen  began  seriously  to  think  of  turning 
rascals.  Fortunately,  however,  for  their  morals,  if  not 
for  their  necks,  a  host  of  imitators  commenced  writing  in 
this  vein,  and  an  opportunity  was  offered  to  see  the  phi- 
losophy divested  of  its  sensibility  and  imagination.  This 
worked  a  magical  change  in  public  sentiment.  The 
imitators  were  hooted  and  hissed  into  oblivion  or  into 
their  senses,  and  the  Newgate  Calendar  was  no  longer 
versified.  It  is  to  the  honor  of  Byron,  that  he  did  not 
cant  about  the  rascality  he  preached.  Instead  of  teach- 
ing that  adultery,  licentiousness  and  blasphemy,  were 
right,  he  steadily  inculcated  that  the  flavor  of  sin  came 
from  disobedience  to  law,  and  that  without  the  t^nse  of 
a  violated  conscience,  wickedness  was  a  very  i,at  and 
tasteless  affair.  He  was  incapable  of  justifying  libertin- 
ism by  a  philosophy  of  immorility,  and  making  reason 


ROMANCE    OF    RASCALITY.  fcl 

pander  will.  He  would  have  men  descend  into  the  pit 
with  the  fierce  plunge  of  the  cataract,  not  creep  to  it  on 
all-fours.  He  never  stooped  to  that  cowardly  perfection 
of  intellectual  meanness  which  represents  falsehood  to 
marriage  oaths  as  one  phase  of  philanthropy,  and  covers 
up  sin  in  some  moral  babble  about  nature  and  conven- 
tionality. 

The  next  man  of  mark  who  illustrated  rascality  for 
the  edification  of  nobility  and  gentry  was  Bulwer.  A 
man  of  great  talents  and  master  of  a  style  of  singular 
fascination,  he  still  was  deficient  in  health  and  robust- 
ness of  mind.  His  nature  was  morbid  ;  and  like  all  mor- 
bid writers  who  are  devoured  by  an  ambition  for  fame, 
he  sought  to  produce  effects,  not  by  skilful  combinations 
of  realities,  but  by  striking  exhibitions  of  rascalities. 
His  romances  are  accordingly  filled  with  characters, 
almost  every  one  of  whom  deserves  to  be  hanged  or 
whipped,  but  who,  in  the  opinion  of  the  writer,  are  evi- 
dently very  clever  people.  He  endeavors  hard  to  make 
rascality  genteel,  by  converting  rascals  into  coxcombs. 
He  compounds  a  hero  from  Beau  Brummell  and  Dick 
Turpin.  He  must  have  him  flat  enough  to  please  Bond- 
street,  and  brfive  enough  for  Hounslow-Heath.  At  one 
time  his  hern  reminds  us  of  that  exquisite  who  had 
brought  his  charms  to  such  a  pitch  of  perfection  that  he 
was  compelled  t*"  carry  a  club  in  the  streets  "  to  keep 
off"  the  womer.;"  at  another,  he  seems  just  the  man 
to  make  a  picturesque  appearance  on  the  gallows. 
Through  incident,  description,  character,  there  runs  one 
perceptible  vein  of  '•ascality.  Let  a  reader  of  healthy 
mind  judge  of  Br'-ver's  books  by  particular  portions  oi 
by  the  impressi'^/'  /  the  whole,  and  he  will  see  a  radi- 
cal defect  in  &  ,    /riter's  mode  of  looking  at  life.     He 

VOL.  II.  '-J 


82  ESSAYS   AND    REVIEWS. 

distorts  objects  instead  of  representing  them,  and  at  best 
achieves  but  eloquent  falsehoods. 

Bulwer  introduced  romantic  rascality  into  drawing- 
rooms,  and  aimed  to  make  it  the  companion  of  people  of 
rank  and  fashion.  He  cared  little  for  the  poor  mob  of 
readers.  It  remained  for  Ainsworth,  and  other  novelists 
of  a  low  order  of  talent,  to  debauch  the  popular  mind, 
and  manufacture  romance  for  the  vulgar.  Jonathan 
Wild,  Jack  SJieppard  and  Dick  Turpin,  were  the  results 
of  an  attempt  to  give  the  people  a  romance  of  rascality 
lor  themselves.  Their  success  stimulated  a  study  of  the 
records  of  the  hanged  to  obtain  heroes  for  "  intense " 
novels ;  and  the  romancer  emerged  from  his  researches 
rich  in  the  spoils  of  the  prison  and  gallows.  The  result 
was  a  general  jail  delivery  into  literature  of  the  convicts 
of  centuries.  The  popular  imagination  was  laden  with 
the  exploits  of  robbers  and  murderers.  This  was  stimu- 
lating the  intellect  of  the  people  with  rum  and  gm,  and 
it  succeeded.  The  romances  were  eagerly  reprinted 
here,  and  eagerly  purchased.  There  was  but  one  thing 
wanting  to  complete  the  evil,  and  that  was  a  morality 
which  justified  rascality,  and  made  it  philosophical  a; 
well  as  romantic.     This  was  supplied  by  France. 

The  vice  of  the  French  mind  is  its  tendency  to  rui 
into  extremes.  It  abhors  a  just  medium  between  oppo 
site  faults.  With  regard  to  religion,  it  rests  in  supersti 
tion  or  atheism ;  in  government,  it  flies  from  servility  U 
license ;  in  literature,  it  passes  from  cold  correctness  t. 
convulsive  deformity,  France  is  almost  the  only  countrj 
which  could  have  produced  the  Massacre  of  St.  Barthoi 
omew  and  the  writings  of  the  EncyclopoBdists.  It  i 
either  in  the  repose  of  despotism  or  the  frenzy  of  revolu 
tion.     It  adored  Louis  XIV.,  and  butchered  Louis  XV< 


ROMANCE    OF    RASCALITY.  83 

It  IS  the  politest  nation  in  the  world,  and  the  nation  in 
which  the  greatest  orutalities  have  been  practised.  In 
literature  it  once  worshipped  Corneille  and  Racine,  and 
called  Shakspeare  a  barbarian.  With  a  revolution  in 
government  came  a  revolution  in  literature,  and  it  rushed 
int'i  every  extreme  of  license.  The  old  idols  were 
dashed  to  pieces,  to  be  replaced  with  monsters.  For  the 
cold  sculptural  figures  reproduced  from  classic  models, 
were  substituted  furies  from  the  mad-house,  or  wretches 
from  the  prison.  The  French  romance  of  rascality  has 
a  peculiar  recklessness  of  its  own  which  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  mind  is  not  capable  of  reaching.  In  its  subjects, 
the  worst  excesses  of  the  English  school  are  exaggerated 
to  hideous  caricature,  and  its  representations  provoke  a 
kind  of  shuddering  laughter. 

The  improvement,  however,  which  the  French  romanc- 
ers have  added  to  the  English  school,  is  in  connecting 
immorality  with  an  ethical  system.  The  leading  id.n  of 
French  romance  is  opposition  to  law  and  obedience  to 
desire  ;  and  its  mode  of  proceeding  is  to  exaggerate  the 
defects  of  social  institutions,  in  order  to  obtain  plausible 
arguments  for  the  violation  of  social  duties.  Thus  it 
practically  sides  with  every  form  of  criminality,  and 
holds  up  crime,  not  to  hatred,  but  sympathy.  Sometimes 
it  apologizes  and  extenuates,  sometimes  defends,  but  in 
all  cases  it  attempts  to  confuse  our  moral  perceptions. 
As  it  is  very  inconvenient  for  some  minds  to  violate  con- 
science, conscience  must  be  smothered  in  sophistries, 
compounded  oi  the  Satanic  and  the  sentimental.  As 
these  sophistries  give  a  degree  of  respectability  to  wick- 
edness, and  allay  the  irritation  of  moral  wounds  and 
bruises,  they  at  last  convince  the  mind  which  i'ramed 
them,  and  what  originated  in  hypocrisy  ends  in  faith. 


S4  ESSAYS    AND   REVIEWS 

The  French  romancers  pretend  to  see  deeper  than  othe  9 
into  the  sources  of  sm  and  error ;  and  have  discovered 
the  cause  of  the  misery  they  produce,  in  legal  and  moral 
restraint.  They  accordingly  argiie  that  it  is  the  duty 
of  philanthropists  to  remove  these  restraints ;  and  invite 
all  men  and  women  to  commence  the  enterprise,  and  not 
be  disheartened  by  the  martyrdom  it  calls  for  at  first. 
To  assail  prejudice  naturally  draws  down  obloquy  upon 
the  assailant.  Great  souls  must  not  mind  such  annoy- 
ances. We  perceive  in  this  the  French  tendency  to 
extremes.  From  the  defects  or  imperfection  of  social 
institutions,  such  writers  argue  for  their  total  overthrow. 
Marriage,  for  instance,  is  often  a  fertile  source  of  misery 
to  husband  and  wife.  If  either  party  chooses  to  break 
the  connection,  let  the  act,  they  would  say,  not  be  stigma- 
tized as  adultery,  but  hailed  as  indicating  a  mind  superior 
to  common  prejudices.  It  is  the  same  with  other  institu- 
tions. Because  they  are  abused,  they  would  dispense 
with  their  use.  But  robbery,  adultery,  blasphemy,  and 
the  like,  are  disrespectable ;  being  under  the  social  ban, 
they  occasion  other  vices  ;  make  them  respectable,  and 
you  make  them  beneficent.  The  object  of  these  French 
romances  is  to  exhibit  characters  who  practise  all  that 
society  calls  sin,  and  yet  are  better  than  the  society  by 
whom  they  are  denounced.  This  is  the  perfection  ot 
sentimental  rascality. 

Now,  this  literary  compound  of  English  ruffianism  and 
French  ethics  has  invaded  the  United  States  in  large 
force ;  and  it  comprises  at  present  a  considerable  portion 
of  the  literature  which  the  people  read.  This  literature 
would  not  be  read  unless  it  were  attractive ;  and  what  i3 
attractive  is  influential.  Its  effect  upon  character  caii 
hardly  be  estimated.     Doubtless  such  matters  fs  cheajr 


ROMANCE    OK    RASCALITY.  8n 

literary  rascalities  may  bo  of  small  moment  to  the  smooth 
scholar ;  but  they  ?hould  be  of  more  importance  than 
any  other  form  of  literature  to  the  patriot  and  statesman. 
Good  books  are  the  most  precious  of  blessings  to  a 
people  ;  bad  books  are  among  the  worst  of  curses.  The 
romance  of  rascality  in  the  imagination  will  be  followed 
by  the  reality  of  rascality  in  the  conduct.  It  contains  in 
itself  principles  of  demoralization  which  will  inevitably 
be  felt  in  action.  This  country  is  the  only  country 
vvhere  everybody  reads.  It  is  of  much  importance  to 
know  what  everybody  is  reading.  How  much  of  this 
reading  is  ninepenny  immorality,  ninepenny  irreligion, 
ninepenny  stupidity,  ninepenny  deviltry  ?  It  might  not 
be  gratifying  to  the  national  pride  of  "  the  most  enligbt 
ened  people  on  earth"  to  answer  this  question. 


THE   CROAKERS   OF   SOCIETY  AND  LIT- 
ERATURE. 

In  modem  society  there  are  innumerable  obstacles  in 
the  way  of  obtaining  or  preserving  a  healthy  condition 
of  the  heart  and  brain.  The  ten  thousand  prejudices, 
resulting  from  peculiarities  of  individual  constitution,  or 
those  Vi/hich  are  insensibly  imbibed  in  social  life,  are  apt 
to  distort  the  mind,  and  vitiate  the  judgment  and  feel- 
ings. Society  is  cursed  with  so  much  deep-seated  mental 
disease,  and  such  a  number  of  psychological  epidemics, 
that  it  has  been  petulantly  fleered  at  by  some  as  a  huge 
"  Hospital  of  Incurables."  There  is  no  nonsense  so 
transparent,  no  crotchet  so  ridiculous,  no  system  so 
unreasonable,  that  it  cannot  find  advocates  and  disciples. 
The  maladies  of  the  body,  produced  by  artificial  modes 
of  living,  react  upon  the  mind,  and  infect  the  reason 
and  sentiments ;  and  many  a  spurious  philosophical  sys- 
tem is  the  product,  not  of  induction,  but  dyspepsia  ;  and 
many  a  plan  of  reform,  assuming  to  come  from  the  brtim, 
has  its  true  origin  in  the  bile.  A  sickening  feebleness 
covers  its  imbecile  elegance,  under  the  name  of  refine- 
ment, and  the  energy  of  disease  and  madness  struts  and 
fumes  in  the  habiliments  of  power.  Nothing  is  rarer 
than  to  see,  among  the  vast  mass  of  men,  a  healthy, 
Btrong-minded,  simple  man.  From  amiable  weaknesses 
down  to  unamiable  insanities,  there  are  unnumbered  dis- 


THE    CROAKERS    OF    SOCIETY    ANP    LITERATURE.         87 

orders  an  i  infirmities  which  stunt  the  fxee  growth  and 
development  of  our  natures. 

Oue  of  the  most  melancholy  productions  of  this  con- 
dition of  life  is  the  sniveller,  —  a  biped  that  infests  all 
classes  of  society,  and  prattles  from  the  catechism  of 
despair  on  all  subjects  of  human  concern.  The  spring 
of  his  mind  is  broken.  A  babyish,  nerveless  fear  has 
driver,  the  sentiment  of  hope  from  his  soul.  He  cringes 
to  every  phantom  of  apprehension,  and  obeys  the  im- 
pulses of  cowardice  as  though  they  were  the  laws  of 
existence.  He  is  the  very  Jeremiah  of  conventionalism, 
and  his  life  one  long  and  lazy  lamentation.  In  connec- 
tion with  his  maudlin  brotherhood,  his  humble  aim  in 
life  is  to  superadd  the  snivelization  of  society  to  its  civ- 
ilization. He  snivels  in  the  cradle,  at  the  school,  at  (he 
altar,  in  the  market,  on  the  death-bed.  His  existence  is 
the  embodiment  of  a  whine.  Passion  in  him  is  merely 
a  whimper.  He  clings  to  what  is  established  as  a  snail 
to  a  rock.  He  sees  nothing  in  the  future  but  evil,  noth- 
ing in  the  past  but  good.  His  speech  is  the  dialect  of 
sorrow ;  he  revels  in  the  rhetoric  of  lamentation.  His 
mind,  or  the  thing  he  calls  his  mind,  is  full  of  fore- 
bodings, premonitions,  and  all  the  fooleries  of  pusilla- 
nimity. He  mistakes  the  tremblings  of  his  nerves  for 
the  intuitions  of  his  reason.  Of  all  bores  he  is  the  most 
intolerable  and  merciless.  He  drawls  misery  to  you 
through  his  nose,  on  all  occasions.  He  is  master  of  all 
the  varieties  of  the  art  of  petty  tormenting.  He  tells 
you  his  fears,  his  anxieties,  his  opinions  of  men  and 
things,  his  misfortunes  and  his  dreams,  as  though  they 
were  the  most  edifj-ing  and  delightful  of  topics  for 
discourse.  Over  every  hope  of  your  own  he  throws  the 
gloom  of  his  despondency.     He  is  a  limping  treatise  on 


R8  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

ennui,  who  invades  sanctuaries  to  which  nc  mere  book 
could  possibly  gain  admittance. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  all  snivellers  do  not  attain 
this  height  of  their  ideal,  and  that  there  are  many  de- 
grees of  foolery  among  the  class.  It  requires  a  peculiar 
mental  and  bodily  constitution,  and  an  uncommonly  bad 
experience  of  life,  so  to  pervert  the  object  of  our  being 
and  the  laws  of  our  nature  as  to  produce  a  finished  whim 
perer.  But  still  there  is  no  conmaunity  free  from  a 
multitude  of  croakers  and  alarmists,  who  display  with 
greater  or  less  completeness  the  qualities  we  have  point- 
ed out,  and  who  afflict  the  patience  and  conscience  of 
all  good  Christians  within  the  reach  of  their  influence. 
They  are  of  various  kinds,  and  exercise  their  misery- 
making  propensities  in  manifold  ways.  We  find  them 
among  lawyers,  physicians,  politicians,  merchants,  farm- 
ers, and  clergymen,  as  well  as  among  poets  and  old 
women.  Wherever  man,  sin,  and  the  gallows  are,  there 
is  the  sniveller.  As  a  citizen  and  politician,  he  has,  for 
the  last  three  hundred  years,  opposed  every  useful  re- 
form, and  wailed  over  every  rotten  institution  as  it  fell. 
He  has  been  and  is  the  foe  of  all  progress,  and  always 
cries  over  the  memory  of  the  "  good  old  days."  He  is 
ever  fearful  of  the  present.  His  slough  of  despond  of 
to-day  is  his  paradise  of  to-morrow.  As  a  clergyman,  he 
has  no  force  of  reasoning  or  unction,  but  whines  dubi- 
ous y  about  the  sin  of  the  world,  and  the  impossibility 
f  checking  it ;  he  tells  his  congregation  that  the  earth 
is  a  vale  of  tears,  that  they  should  do  nothing  but  lament 
over  their  degeneracy,  and  hints  the  probability  that  few 
of  them  can  be  saved  from  the  fire  that  is  not  quenched 
He  makes  the  house  of  mourning  more  mournful,  a  no 


THE    CROAKERS   OF    SOCIETY    AND   LITERATURE.         89 

tolls  the  funeral  bell  of  his  voice  as  he  joins  loving  hands 
m  marriage. 

But  it  is  in  literature  that  the  sniveller  is  most  unen- 
durable, for  in  composition  he  can  give  full  expression 
to  much  which  human  nature  would  prevent  him  from 
displaying  in  conduct.  Reader,  have  you  not  seen  or 
read  many  a  snivelling  poet?  —  those  weak  manikins 
and  dapper  authorlings  who  mistake  indigestion  for 
inspiration?  Heaven  save  us  all  from  such  an  inflic 
tion  !  There  is  nothing  so  bad  as  the  slave  of  despond- 
ency when  he  attempts  to  dance  in  the  chains  of  rhyme. 
He  sets  his  groans  and  grumblings  to  a  kind  of  squeak 
mg  tune,  and  forces  innocent  types  to  be  the  pander  of 
his  passion  for  melancholy.  He  goes  about  the  streets 
of  the  intellectual  republic,  wearing  "  his  heart  upon  his 
sleeve,"  and  praying  all  charitable  persons  to  drop  into 
his  hat  some  coppers  of  commiseration  and  crumbs  of 
consolation.  He  wishes  to  make  the  whole  world  his 
confidant,  —  to  paste  up  the  placards  of  his  misery  in 
the  public  markets, — to  inform  all  men  and  women  thai 
his  heart  is  dust,  that  his  hopes  are  blighted,  and  thai 
uiihappiness  is  his  portion,  —  to  exhibit  the  most  recon- 
dite secrets  of  his  bosom  to  the  gaze  of  tattlers  and 
sneerers,  with  the  expectation  of  sympathy ;  and,  with 
effeminate  plaints  of  fictitious  woes,  to  snivel  away  his 
life  in  a  vain  attempt  to  turn  his  metrical  drivelling  mto 
the  current  coin  of  the  land.  He  trusts  ;!';-at  if  hard, 
cold,  inhuman  man  refuses  a  hearing  to  r.  i  maudlin 
miseries,  the  tender  heart  of  angelic  woman  wii.  pity  and 
purchase  his  misfortunes.  All  the  "  little  feeblenesses  " 
generated  in  the  atmosphere  of  "  conventionalism's  air- 
tight stove,"  which  make  his  mind  the  seat  of  more 
uifirmities  than  the  pharmacopoeia  dreams  of,  he  expects 


90  ESSAYS   AND    REVIEWS. 

will  find  an  answering  response   in  a  sex   which  has 
always  enough  old  women  of  its  own. 

The  poets  who  thus  snivel  in  rhyme  generally  laboi 
under  the  hallucination  that  their  mawkish  foolery  finds 
sympathizing  hearers.  Bound  up  and  circumscribed  by 
their  own  petty  world  of  consciousness,  and  brooding 
over  their  own  little  sorrows  and  cares,  they  are  incapa- 
ble of  giving  any  free  and  fresh  expression  to  natural 
thought  and  emotion.  They  hug  the  phantom  of  their 
conceit  close  to  their  breasts,  and  deem  it  of  universal 
interest  and  love.  Everything  which  occurs  to  them- 
selves, from  a  pain  in  the  heart  to  a  pain  in  the  head, 
they  deem  worthy  of  commemoration  in  metre.  Their 
idiosyncrasies,  follies,  maladies,  moonshine,  and  misery, 
are  never  satisfied  until  they  have  been  tortured  into 
rhyme.  The  public  take  interest  in  the  psychological 
history  of  great  poets,  because  those  poets  have  earned 
their  title  to  such  distinction  by  works  of  great  genius, 
in  which  all  can  sympathize.  Shakspeare's  sonnets  are 
invaluable,  because  we  desire  to  know  everything  which 
can  be  learned  of  the  author  of  Hamlet  and  Macbeth. 
But  the  class  of  metrical  snivellers  would  reverse  this, 
and  have  the  world's  curiosity  excited  for  the  mental 
diseases  of  complaining  mediocrity.  All  the  "decent 
drapery  "  that  decorum  casts  over  those  private  medita- 
tions which  every  healthy  intellect  dislikes  to  divulge, 
they  throw  off  with  the  utmost  carelessness,  and  glory 
in  an  indelicate  exposure  of  mind.  Every  little  event  of 
their  mental  or  bodily  life  they  deem  worthy  of  being 
celebrated  in  a  poem.  If  a  thought  happens  accidentally 
to  stray  into  their  craniums,  they  rush  instantly  into 
rhyme.  A  sonnet  to  them  is  a  soothing-syrup,  and 
Ivrics  flow  frvim  their  lamentations.     They  would  turn 


THE    CROAKERS    OF    SOCIETY    AND    LTrERATURE.         91 

their  whine  into  a  warble.  They  mistake  their  menta^ 
diseases  for  general  laws.  They  would  re-construct  life 
after  the  image  of  their  own  sick  imaginations,  and 
make  a  nation  of  snivellers.  An  inelegant  imbecility, 
like  the  mingling  of  moonbeams  with  fog,  drearily  illum- 
ines the  intense  inane  of  their  rhetoric. 

When  we  consider  the  importance  of  energy  and  hope 
in  the  affairs  of  the  world,  and  contemplate  the  enfee- 
bling if  not  immoral  result  of  indulging  in  a  dainty  and 
debilitating  egotism,  we  cannot  but  look  upon  the  snivel- 
lers of  social  life  as  great  evils.  Even  when  the  habit 
of  selfish  lamentation  is  accompanied  by  talent,  it  should 
be  treated  with  contempt  and  scorn.  There  are  so  many 
inducements  in  our  time  to  pamper  it,  that  there  is  no 
danger  that  the  opposition  will  be  too  severe.  Whither- 
soever we  go,  we  meet  with  the  sniveller.  He  stops  us 
at  the  corner  of  the  street  to  intrust  us  with  his  opinion 
on  the  probability  that  the  last  measure  of  Congress  will 
dissolve  the  Union.  He  fears,  also,  that  the  morals  and 
intelligence  of  the  people  are  destroyed  by  the  election 
of  some  rogue  to  office.  He  tells  us,  just  before  church, 
that  the  last  sermon  of  some  transcendental  preacher 
has  given  the  death-blow  to  religion,  and  that  the  waves 
of  atheism  and  the  clouds  of  pantheism  are  to  deluge 
and  darken  all  the  land.  Next  he  informs  us  of  the 
starvation  of  some  poor  hack,  engaged  as  assistant  e-^'tor 
to  a  country  journal,  and  infers  from  it  that,  in  the 
United  States,  literature  cannot  flourish.  In  a  time  of 
general  health,  he  speaks  of  *he  pestilence  that  is  to  be. 
The  mail  cannot  be  an  hour  late  but  he  prattles  of  rail- 
road accidents  and  steamboat  disasters.  He  fears  that 
his  friend  who  was  married  yesterday  will  be  a  bank- 
rupt in  a  year,  and  whimpers  over  the  trialo  which  he 


92  ESSAYS    AND   KEVIEWS. 

will  then  endure.     He  is  ridden  with  an  eteraal  night* 
mare,  and  emits  an  eternal  wail. 

Recklessness  is  a  bad  quality,  and  so  is  blind  and 
extravagant  hope ;  but  neither  is  so  degrading  as  inglori- 
ous and  inactive  despair.  We  object  to  the  sniv'eller, 
because  he  presents  the  anomaly  of  a  being  who  has  the 
power  of  motion  without  possessing  life.  His  insipid 
languor  is  worse  than  tumid  strength.  Better  that  a 
ma7"i  should  rant  than  whine.  The  person  who  has  no 
bou.iding  and  buoyant  feelings  in  him,  whose  cheek  never 
flushes  at  anticipated  good,  whose  blood  never  tingles  and 
fires  at  the  contemplation  of  a  noble  aim,  who  has  no 
aspiration  and  no  great  object  in  life,  is  only  fit  for  the 
hospital  or  the  band-box.  Enterprise,  confidence,  a  dis- 
•  position  to  believe  that  good  can  be  done,  an  indisposition 
to  believe  that  all  good  has  been  done  —  these  constitute 
important  elements  in  the  character  of  every  man  who  is 
of  use  to  the  world.  We  want  no  wailing  and  whimper- 
ing about  the  absence  of  happiness,  but  a  sturdy  deter- 
mination to  abate  misery.  The  world  should  have  too 
much  work  on  its  hands  to  lend  its  ear  to  the  plaints  of 
its  individual  members.  The  laborers  should  have  no 
mercy  for  the  do-nothings.  The  man  of  serious  purpose 
has  no  time  to  be  miserable.  Into  the  very  blood  and 
brain  of  our  youth  there  should  be  infused  energy  and 
power.  The  literature  of  the  country  should  breathe  the 
bracing  air  of  a  healthy  inspiration,  not  the  hot  atmos- 
phere of  a  spurious  spiritualism  and  silly  sentimentality. 
Instead  of  brooding  over  his  own  diseased  consciousness, 
and  aggravating  the  malady  which  enfeebles  his  mind, 
the  jaded  blase,  should  cure  his  unhappiness  by  minister- 
ing to  the  comfort  of  others.  And  we  would  say  to  the 
Door  sniveller,  whether  he  dawdles  in  a  drawing-room  o 


THE    CROAKERS    OF    SOCIETY    AND    LITERATURE.         93 

tottles  in  a  tavern,  in  the  words  of  the  sagacious  Herr 
Teufelsdrockh,  —  "  Produce  !  produce  !  were  it  but  the 
pitifullest  infinitesimal  fraction  of  a  product,  produce  it 
in  God's  name!  'Tis  the  utmost  thou  hast  in  thee; 
out  with  it,  then.  Up,  up  !  whatsoever  thy  hand  findeth 
to  do,  do  it  with  thy  whole  might.  Work,  while  it  is 
called  to-day,  for  the  night  cometh  wherein  no  man  can 
work." 


BRITISH    CRITICS.* 

The  British  reviews  and  reviewers  of  the  early  pan 
of  the  present  century  are  closely  connected  with  the 
history  of  English  literature,  not  only  on  account  of  th*", 
influence  they  exerted  on  public  opinion,  but  for  the 
valuable  contributions  which  a  few  of  them  made  to 
literature  itself.  Some  of  the  most  masrerly  disquisi- 
tions in  the  whole  range  of  English  letters  have  ajjpeared 
in  the  three  leading  periodicals  of  the  time,  —  the 
Edinburgh  Review,  the  Quarterly  Review,  and  Black- 
wood's Magazine.  Almost  all  systems  of  philosophy, 
theology,  politics  and  criticism,  have  been  vehemently 
discussed  in  their  pages.  They  have  been  the  organs 
through  which  many  of  the  subtlest  and  strongest  intel- 
lects have  communicated  with  their  age.  In  classifying 
historical  events  under  ideas  and  principles,  in  tracing 
out  the  laws  which  give  pertinence  to  seemingly  confused 
facts,  in  presenting  intellectual  and  historical  epochs  in 
vivid  pictures,  they  have  been  especially  successful.    But 

*  1.  Contributions  to  the  Edinburgh  Review.  By  Francis  Jeffrey,  now  on 
of  the  Judges  of  the  Court  of  Sessions  in  Scotland.  London  :  Longman  &  Co 
4  vols.     Svo. 

2.  Wiley  &  Putnam's  Library  of  Choice  Reading:  Characters  of  Shak 
speare.     By  William  Hazlitt.     New  York.     16mo. 

3.  Imagination  and  Fancy.  By  Leigh  Hunt.  New  Yom;  Wiley  St 
Putnam,     16mo.  —  North,  American  Review,  October,  1845. 


BRITISH    CRITICS. 


95 


although  containing  papers  of  the  greatest  merit,  their 
general  tone  has  been  too  much  that  of  the  partisan. 
Being  political  as  well  as  literary  journals,  their  judg- 
ments of  authors  have  often  been  determined  by  consid- 
p.rations  independent  of  literary  merit.  In  criticism,  they 
havp.  repeatedly  violated  the  plainest  principles  of  taste, 
morality,  and  benevolence.  Their  dictatorial  "  we  "  has 
been  assumed  by  some  of  the  most  unprincipled  haclc? 
that  ever  lifted  their  hoofs  against  genius  and  virtue. 
Though  they  did  good  in  assisting  to  purge  literature  of 
much  mediocrity  and  stupidity,  it  is  questionable  whether 
their  criticism  on  contemporaries  was  not,  on  the  whole, 
productive  of  evil.  The  rage  for  strong  writing,  which 
the  success  of  their  example  brought  into  fashion,  at  one 
time  threatened  to  destroy  all  discriminating  criticism. 
An  article  was  more  effective  by  being  spiced  with  sar- 
casm and  personalities,  and  the  supply  was  equal  to  the 
demand.  The  greatest  poets  of  the  day  found  themselves 
at  the  mercy  of  anonymous  writers,  whose  arrogance  was 
generally  equalled  only  by  their  malice  or  ignorance,  and 
by  whom  a  brilliant  libel  was  considered  superior  to  the 
fairest  critique. 

It  is  impossible  to  look  over  the  current  criticism  of 
that  day,  and  observe  the  meanness  and  injustice  which 
so  often  characterize  it,  without  a  movement  of  indigna- 
tion. This  is  mingled  with  surprise,  when  we  discover 
in  it  traces  of  the  hand  of  some  distinguished  man  of 
talent,  who  has  lent  himself  to  do  the  dirty  work  of  fac- 
tion or  prejudice.  The  great  poets  of  the  period  were 
compelled  to  suffer,  not  merely  from  attacks  on  their 
writings,  but  from  all  that  malice  could  bring  against 
their  personal  character,  and  all  that  party  hostility  could 
brinof  atniinst  their  notions  of  government.     It  was  unfor- 


96  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

tunate,  that  the  same  century  in  which  an  important 
revolution  occurred  in  the  spirit  and  character  of  poetry, 
was  likewise  that  in  which  political  rancor  rag'ed  and 
foamed  almost  to  madness.  The  exasperated  passions 
growing  out  of  the  political  dissensions  of  the  time,  which 
continually  brought  opposite  opinions  in  a  rude  shock 
against  each  other,  and  turned  almost  every  impressible 
spirit  into  a  heated  partisan,  gave  a  peculiar  character  of 
vindictiveness  to  literary  judgments.  The  critics,  being 
politicians,  were  prone  to  decide  upon  the  excellence  of 
a  poet's  images,  or  a  rhetorician's  style,  by  the  opinion  he 
entertained  of  Mr.  Pitt  and  the  French  Revolution.  The 
same  journal  which  could  see  nothing  but  blasphemy  and 
licentiousness  in  the  poetry  of  Shelley,  could  find  matter 
for  inexpressible  delight  in  the  poetry  of  John  Wilson 
Croker.  Criticism,  in  many  instances,  was  the  mere 
vehicle  of  malignity  and  impudence.  Whigs  libelled 
tory  writers,  tories  anathematized  whigs.  Eminence 
in  letters  was  to  be  obtained  only  b};"  men  gifted  with 
strong  powers  of  endurance  or  resistance.  The  moment 
a  person  became  prominent  in  the  public  eye,  he  was 
considered  a  proper  object  of  public  contempt  or  derision. 
As  soon  as  his  head  appeared  above  the  mass,  he  was 
certain  that  some  journal  would  deem  nim  worthy  of 
being  made  the  butt  of  merciless  satire  or  scandalous 
personalities.  Every  party  and  clique  had  its  organ  of 
"  public "  opinion ;  and,  in  disseminating  its  peculiar 
prejudices  or  notions,  exhibited  a  plentiful  lack  of  justice 
and  decorum.  The  coarseness  and  brutality  which  party 
spirit  thus  engendered  brought  down  the  moral  qualifica- 
dons  of  the  critic  to  a  low  standard.  Every  literary 
bully,  who  was  expert  in  the  trade  of  intellectual  assassi 
iiation,  could  easily  find  employment  both  for  his  cow 


BRITISH    CRITICS. 


97 


ardice  and  his  cruelty.  The  public  looked  admiringly 
on,  month  after  month,  as  these  redoubtable  torturers  in 
the  mquisition  of  letters  stretched  some  bard  on  the  rack, 
and  insulted  his  agonies  with  their  impish  glee.  If  the 
author  denied,  in  meek  or  indignant  tones,  the  justice  of 
the  punishment,  the  reply  which  they  sometimes  conde- 
scended to  make  was  in  the  spirit  of  the  taunt  with  which 
the  judges  in  "The  Cenci"  mocked  the  faltering  false- 
hoods of  their  tortured  victim  :  — 

"  Dare  you,  with  lips  yet  white  from  the  rack's  kiss, 
Speak  false  ?     Is  it  so  soft  a  questioner, 
That  you  can  bandy  lovers'  talk  with  it, 
Till  it  wind  out  your  life  and  soul  ?  " 

From  this  insolence  and  vindictiveness  few  British 
periodicals  have  been  free,  though  there  are  wide  differ- 
ences in  the  ability  and  learning  of  the  contributors,  and 
in  the  artistical  form  which  their  bad  qualities  have 
taken.  No  eminent  man,  of  any  party,  has  escaped 
criticism  of  the  kind  we  have  noticed,  —  criticism  hav- 
ing its  origin  in  the  desire  to  pamper  a  depraved  taste, 
in  envy,  and  hatred,  and  political  bigotry,  —  a  criticism 
which  considered  the  publication  of  a  book  merely  as  an 
occasion  to  slander  its  author.  Insignificance  was  the 
only  shield  from  defamation. 

But  perhaps  the  authors  of  the  time  suffered  less 
vexation  from  those  critical  structures  directly  traceable 
to  malevolence  and  political  fanaticism,  than  from  those 
which  were  dictated  from  a  lack  of  sympathy  with  the 
spirit  of  their  works.  There  can  hardly  be  a  more 
exquisite  torture  devised  for  a  sensitive  man  of  genius, 
than  to  have  the  merit  of  his  compositions  tested  by 
canons  of  taste  which  he  expressly  repudiates,  and  dog- 

VOL.  II.  7 


98  ESSAYS    AJVD    REVIEWS. 

matically  judged  by  one  who  cannot  co:  nprehend  the 
i[ualities  which  constitute  their  originality  and  peculiar 
excellence.  If  the  critic  has  the  larger  audience  of  the 
two,  and  his  decisions  are  echoed  as  oracular  by  the  mob 
of  readers,  the  thing  becomes  doubly  provoking.  The 
personal  feelings  of  the  poet  are  outraged,  and  his  writ- 
ings are,  for  the  time,  prevented  from  exerting  that 
influence  which  legitmiately  belongs  to  them.  As  an 
earnest  man,  conceiving  that  he  has  a  message  of  some 
import  to  deliver  to  the  world,  he  must  consider  his  critic 
as  doing  injury  to  society,  as  well  as  to  himself.  This 
impression  is  apt  to  engender  a  morbid  egotism,  which 
makes  him  impatient  even  of  just  censure,  and  to  render 
the  gulf  between  him  and  the  public  wider  and  more 
impassable.  Much  of  the  narrowness  and  captiousness, 
which  we  observe  in  ludicrous  connection  with  some  of 
the  noblest  thoughts  and  most  exalted  imaginations  of 
the  poets  of  the  present  century,  had  their  source  in  the 
stings  which  vindictive  or  flippant  reviewers  had  planted 
in  their  minds.  Thus  unjust  or  ignorant  criticism  sub- 
verts the  purpose  it  proposes  to  accomplish,  arid  makes 
the  author  suspicious  of  its  capacity  to  detect  faults, 
where  it  is  so  plainly  incompetent  to  apprehend  beauties. 
Besides,  though  it  seems  to  annihilate  its  object,  its 
effect  is  but  transitory.  That  silent  gathering  of  thought 
and  sentiment  in  the  minds  of  large  bodies  of  people, 
which,  when  it  has  assumed  distinct  shape,  we  call  pub- 
lic opinion,  reverses  the  dicta  of  self-constituted  literary 
tribunals;  indeed,  it  changes  the  tone  of  the  tribunals 
themselves.  In  1816,  the  Edinburgh  Review  assumes 
an  attitude  of  petulant  dictatorship  to  Wordsworth, 
and  begins  a  critique  on  "The  Excursion"  with, — 
"  This  will  never  do  ;"  in  1831,  it  prefaces  an  objection 


rSKITISH    CRITICS.  9U 

kO  one  characteristic  trait  of  his  descriptions  of  nature 
with  the  words,  —  "In  spite  of  the  reverence  we  feel  for 
the  genius  of  Mr.  Wordsworth  ! " 

Among  the  essayists  and  reviewers  of  the  time,  Feancis 
Jeffrey  occupies  a  prominent  position.  •  He  was  one  of 
the  projectors  of  the  Edinburgh  Review,  —  the  earliest, 
ablest,  and  most  influential  of  the  periodicals  of  the  nine- 
teenth century,  —  and  from  1S03  to  1829  its  editor.  A 
selection  from  his  contributions,  occupying  four  octavo 
volumes,  has  been  lately  published  under  his  own  super- 
intendence. These  evince  a  mind  of  versatile  talents 
and  acquirements,  confident  in  its  own  capacity,  and 
delivering  unhesitating  judgments  on  all  matters  relating 
to  politics,  literature  and  life,  without  the  slightest  self- 
distrust.  It  would  be  useless  to  deny  that  mai.y  of  the 
opinions  in  these  volumes  are  unsound  and  presumptu- 
ous, that  they  are  far  in  the  rear  of  the  critical  judg- 
ments of  the  present  day,  and  that  some  of  their  most 
dogmatic  decisions  have  been  reversed  in  the  journal 
where  they  originally  appeared,  —  some  by  himself,  but 
more  by  Macaulay,  Carlyle,  Hazlitt,  and  others.  The 
influence  of  very  few  of  his  articles  has  been  permanent. 
Written  for  the  most  part  to  serve  a  transitory  purpose, 
and  deficient  in  fixed  and  central  principles,  their  influ- 
ence has  ceased  with  the  controversies  they  excited. 
With  a  few  exceptions,  they  will  be  read  rather  for  the 
merits  of  their  style  and  the  peculiar  individuality  they 
embody,  than  for  any  additions  they  have  made  to 
thought  or  knowledge.  When  we  consider  that  their 
author  assumed  to  show  the  poets  and  thinkers  of  a 
whole  generation  how  to  write  and  to  think,  and  that  he 
has  not  left  behind  him  a  single  critical  principle  con- 


100  ESSAYS    AND   REVIEWS. 

neoted  with  his  name,  his  pretensions  are  placed  in  a 
disadvantageous  contrast  with  his  powers. 

A  prominent  defect  of  Jeffrey's  literary  criticism  arose 
from  his  lack  of  earnestness,  —  that  earnestness  which 
comes,  not  merely  from  the  assent  of  the  understanding 
to  a  proposition,  but  from  the  deep  convictions  of  a  man's 
whole  nature.  He  is  consequently  ingenious  and  plausi- 
ble, rather  than  proic und,  —  a  man  of  expedients,  rather 
than  of  ideas  and  principles.  In  too  many  of  his  articles, 
he  appears  like  an  advocate,  careless  of  the  truth,  or 
sceptical  as  to  its  existence  or  possibility  of  being  reached, 
and  only  desirous  to  make  out  as  good  a  case  for  his  own 
assumed  position  as  will  puzzle  or  unsettle  the  under- 
standings of  his  hearers.  His  logical  capacity  is  shown 
in  acute  special  pleading,  in  sophistical  glosses,  more 
than  in  fair  argument.  He  is  almost  always  a  reasoner 
on  the  surface ;  and  the  moment  he  begins  to  argue,  the 
reader  instinctively  puts  his  understanding  on  guard, 
with  the  expectation  of  the  ingenious  fallacies  that  are 
to  come.  He  cannot  handle  universal  principles,  founded 
in  the  nature  of  things,  and  he  would  not,  if  he  could ; 
for  his  object  is  victory  rather  than  truth.  When  a 
proposition  is  presented  to  his  mind,  his  inquiry  is  not 
jvhether  it  be  true  or  false,  but  what  can  be  said  in  its 
favor  or  against  it.  Tl  e  sceptical  and  refining  character 
of  his  understanding,  leading  him  to  look  at  things 
merely  as  subjects  for  argument,  and  the  mockery  and 
persiflage  of  manner  which  such  a  habit  of  mind  induces, 
made  him  a  most  provoking  adversary  to  a  man  who 
viewed  things  in  a  more  profound  and  earnest  manner. 

As  an  effect  of  this  absence  of  earnestness,  and  of  the 

■  sonsequent  devotion  of  his  faculties  to  the  mere  attain 

ment  of  immediate  objects,  we  may  mention  this  subor 


BSITISH    CRITICS.  101 

iination  of  principle  to  tact,  both  in  his  own  writings 
and  ill  his  management  of  the  Eeview.  There  is  no 
critic  more  slippery,  none  who  can  shift  his  position  so 
nimbl}^,  or  who  avoids  the  consequences  of  a  blunder 
with  such  brilliant  dexterity.  He  understood  to  perfec- 
tion the  art  of  so  mingling  praise  and  blame,  that,  while 
the  spirit  and  effect  of  the  critique  was  to  represent  its 
object  as  little  better  than  a  dunce,  its  mere  letter  was 
consistent  with  a  more  favorable  view.  Thus,  while  it 
was  the  fashion  to  underrate  and  ridicule  any  class  of 
poets,  there  was  none  who  could  do  it  with  more  con- 
summate skill  than  Jeffrey,  —  none  who  could  gain 
more  reputation  for  sense  and  acumen  in  the  position  he 
assumed  J  but  whenever  public  feeling  changed,  he  could 
still  refer  confidently  to  his  course,  and  prove  that  he  had 
always  acknowledged  the  extraordinary  gifts  of  his  vic- 
tims, and  only  ridiculed  or  mourned  their  misdirection. 
He  thus  made  his  writings  oracular  among  all  talkera 
about  taste  and  letters,  among  all  who  felt  and  thought 
superficially.  He  was  popular  with  them,  not  because 
he  gave  them  deeper  principles  by  which  to  judge  of 
merit,  but  because  he  reconciled  them  to  their  own  shah 
lowness.  The  lazy  and  the  superficial,  who  considei 
everything  as  nonsense  which  they  have  not  the  sense  to 
perceive,  are  especially  gratified  with  the  writer  who 
confirms  their  own  impressions  by  plausible  arguments, 
and  expresses  them  in  brilliant  language.  Profound  and 
earnest  feeling,  sentiments  of  awe,  wonder,  and  rever- 
ence, a  mind  trained  to  habits  of  contemplation  on  man 
and  the  universe,  were  needed  in  the  critic  who  should 
do  justice  to  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge.  These  Jeffrey 
did  not  possess;  but  instead,  he  had  a  subtle  under- 
standing, considerablfi   quickness  of  apprehension,  seo 


102  ESSAYS    AND   REVIEWS. 

sibility,  and  fancy,  a  great  deal  of  wit,  a  most  remark- 
able fluency  of  expression,  and,  with,  little  insight  beyond 
the  surface  of  things,  an  acute  perception  of  their  prac- 
tical and  conventional  relations.  In  the  exercise  of  these 
powers  on  their  appropriate  subjects,  he  appears  to  great 
advantage.  No  one  could  demolish  a  dunce  more  effect- 
ively, or  represent  in  clearer  light  the  follies  and  crimes 
of  knavish  politicians.  But  when  he  came  to  discuss 
the  merits  of  works  of  high  and  refined  imagination,  or 
to  criticize  sentiments  lying  deeper  than  those  which 
usually  appear  in  actual  life,  he  did  little  more  than 
express  brilliant  absurdities.  It  is  here  that  we  discover 
his  lack  of  power  to  perceive  the  thing  he  ridicules ;  and 
accordingly  his  wit  only  beats  the  air. 

In  saying  this,  we  are  by  no  means  insensible  to  the 
charm  of  Jeffrey's  wit,  nor  to  the  facile  grace  of  his  dic- 
tion. The  reviews  of  Wordsworth's  different  works  are 
masterpieces  of  impertinence.  The  airiness  and  vivacity 
of  expression,  the  easy  arrogance  of  manner,  the  cool  and 
provoking  dogmatism,  the  insulting  tone  of  fairness,  the 
admirable  adaptation  of  the  sarcasm  to  tease  and  irritate 
its  object,  the  subordination  of  the  praise  of  particular 
passages  to  the  sweeping  condemnation  passed  on  the 
whole  poem,  and  the  singular  skill  with  which  the  lof- 
tiest imaginations  are  represented  as  commonplace  or 
nonsensical,  are  good  examples  of  Jeffrey's  acuteness  and 
wit.  Of  "The  Excursion"  he  remarks  :  — -"It  is  longer, 
veaker,  and  tamer,  than  any  of  Mr.  Wordsworth's  other 
productions  ;  with  less  boldness  of  originality,  and  less 
even  of  that  extreme  simplicity  and  lowliness  of  tone 
which  wavered  so  prettily,  in  the  Lyrical  Ballads 
between  silliness  and  pathos.  We  have  imitations  of 
Cowper,  and   even  of  Milton,  here,  engrafted  on  the 


BRITISH    CRITICS.  103 

natural  drawl  of  the  Lakers,  —  and  all  diluted  into  har- 
mony by  that  profuso  and  irrepressible  wordiness  wliich 
deluges  all  the  blank  verse  of  this  school  of  poetry,  and 
lubricates  and  weakens  the  whole  structure  of  their 
style." 

Then  the  critic  informs  us,  that,  if  he  were  to  describe 
the  volume  very  shortly,  he  should  characterize  it  "  as  a 
tissue  of  moral  and,  devotional  ravings,  in  which  innu- 
merable changes  are  rung  upon  a  very  few  simple  and 
familiar  ideas  ;  but  with  such  an  accompaniment  of  long 
words,  long  sentences  and  unwieldy  phrases,  and  such 
a  hubbub  of  strained  raptures  and  fantastic  sublimities, 
that  it  is  often  difficult  for  the  most  skilful  and  attentive 
student  to  obtain  a  glimpse  of  the  author's  meaning — and 
altogether  impossible  for  an  ordinary  reader  to  conjecture 

what  he  is  about The  fact  accordingly  is, 

that  in  this  production  he  is  more  obscure  than  a  Pinda- 
ric poet  of  the  seventeenth  century  ;  and  more  verbose 
*  than  even  himself  of  yore  ; '  while  the  wilfulness  with 
which  he  persists  in  choosing  his  examples  of  intellectual 
dignity  and  tenderness  exclusively  from  the  lowest  ranks 
of  society,  will  be  sufficiently  apparent  from  the  circum- 
stance of  his  having  thought  fit  to  make  his  chief  prolo- 
cutor in  this  poetical  dialogue,  the  chief  advocate  of 
Providence  and  Virtue,  an  old  Scotch  pedler  —  retired 
indeed  from  business,  but  still  rambling  about  in  his 
former  haunts,  ana  gossiping  among  his  old  custoirers, 
without  his  pack  on  his  shoulders.  The  other  per?ons 
of  the  drama  are,  a  retired  military  chaplain,  who  has 
grown  half  an  atheist  and  half  a  misanthrope  —  the  wife 
of  an  unprosperous  weaver — a  servant-girl  with  her  nat 
ural  child  —  a  parish  pauper,  and  one  or  two  other  per 
nonages  of  equal  rank  and  dignity." 


104  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

After  condemning  some  of  the  most  splendid  and 
some  feeble  passages  in  the  poem,  and  extracting  a  few 
which  are  thought  really  beautiful  or  pathetic,  this  hon- 
est critic  concludes  thus  :  — 

"  The  absurdity  in  this  case,  we  think,  is  palpable  and  glar- 
ing ;  but  it  is  exactly  of  the  same  nature  with  that  which  infects 
the  whole  substance  of  the  work  —  a  puerile  ambition  of  singu- 
larity engrafted  on  an  unlucky  predilection  for  truisms  ;  and  an 
afiecled  passion  for  simplicity  and  humble  life,  most  awkwardly 
combined  with  a  taste  for  mystical  refinements,  and  all  the 
gorgeousness  of  obscure  phraseology.  His  taste  for  simplicity 
is  evinced  by  sprinkling  up  and  down  his  interminable  declama- 
tions a  few  descriptions  of  baby-houses,  and  of  old  hats  with 
wet  brims  ;  and  his  amiable  partiality  for  humble  lile,  by  assur- 
ing us  that  a  wordy  rhetorician,  who  talks  about  Thebes,  and 
allegorizes  all  the  heathen  mythology,  was  once  a  pedler  —  and 
making  him  break  in  upon  his  magnificent  orations  with  two 
or  three  awkward  notices  of  something  that  he  had  seen  when 
selling  winter  raiment  about  the  country — or  of  the  changes  in 
the  state  of  society,  which  had  almost  annihilated  his  former 
calling." 

In  the  review  of  "  The  White  Doe  of  Rylstone,"  Jeffrey 
is  even  more  emphatic  in  his  censures.  He  had  given 
up  Wordsworth,  on  the  appearance  of  "  The  Excursion," 
as  beyond  the  reach  of  his  teachings ;  and  accordingly,  in 
this  article,  he  merely  libels  and  parodies  the  poem. 
We  are  told  that,  "  In  the  Lyrical  Ballads,  he  was  exhib- 
ited, on  the  whole,  in  a  vein  of  very  pretty  deliration  ; 
but  in  the  poem  before  us  he  appears  in  a  state  of  low 
and  maudlin  imbecility,  which  would  not  have  mis- 
become Master  Silence  himself,  in  the  close  of  a  socia' 

day The  seventh  and  last  canto  con 

tains  the  history  of  the  desolated  Emily  and  her  faithfu 
doe ;  but  so  very  discreetly  and  cautiously  written,  tha 


BRITISH    CRITICS.  105 

ive  will  engage  that  the  most  tender-hearted  reader  shall 
peruse  .t  without  the  least  risk  of  any  excessive  emotion. 
The  poor  lady  runs  about  indeed  for  some  years  in  a 
very  disconsolate  way,  in  a  worsted  gown  and  flannel 
night-cap  :  but  at  last  the  old  white  doe  finds  her  out, 
and  takes  again  to  following  her  —  whereupon  Mr. 
Wordsworth  breaks  out  into  this  fine  and  natural  :iup- 
ture,"  &c.,  &c. 

The  importance  which  should  attach  to  criticism  like 
this  may  be  estimated  by  a  short  contrast  of  the  char- 
acter and  pursuits  of  the  poet  and  critic  :  Wordsworth, 
living  amid  the  most  magnificent  scenery,  impressed 
with  a  mysterious  sense  of  the  spiritualities  of  things, 
pure,  high-minded,  imaginative,  contemplative,  earnest ; 
—  Jeffrey,  passing  his  life  in  the  bustle  of  politics  and 
courts  of  law,  brisk,  Advacious,  plausible,  sarcastic,  prac- 
tical, available.  Was  ever  poet  matched  with  critic  so 
well  calculated  to  discern  excellences,  so  capable  of  cor- 
recting faults  ? 

In  his  articles  on  the  poetry  of  Crabbe,  Campbell, 
Byron,  Scott,  Moore,  Keats,  Rogers,  and  Mrs,  Hemans, 
although  we  think  he  has  not  always  perceived  their 
highest  merits,  or  accurately  estimated  their  relative 
position,  Jeffi'ey  still  appears  to  considerable  advantage. 
The  happy  facility  of  his  expression,  the  neatness  and 
precision  of  his  thinking,  his  occasional  glow  of  feeling 
and  fancy,  and  his  sly,  stinging  wit,  make  them  very 
fascinating  compositions.  But  we  see  nothing  in  them 
that  indicates  the  highest  taste,  —  nothing  that  gives 
evidence  of  profound  feeling  or  thought.  They  are  kept 
studiously  Vvithin  the  tone  of  "good  society."  Though 
vigorous  ar.d  brilliant,  they  rather  sparkle  than  burn, 
and  have  little  of  the  living  energy  of  earnest  feeling. 


i06  ESSAYS   AND   REVIEWS. 

Though  Jeffrey  evidently  felt  contempt  for  the  taste  of 
Wordsworth  and  Coleridge,  none  of  his  articles  on  poetry 
can  be  compared,  in  point  of  true  insight  into  critical 
principles,  with  their  prefaces  and  essays  on  the  same 
theme.  But  these  articles  still  have  a  charm,  apart  from 
their  critical  value ;  and  we  have  no  doubt  tha"^  they  will 
long  be  read  for  their  shrewdness  and  point,  -.nd  their 
fieculiar  sweetness  and  grace  of  diction.  The  practical 
remarks  are  always  acute,  and  evince  uncommon  power 
of  distinct  expression.  The  review  of  Moore's  "  Lalla 
Rookh  " —  a  work  just  calculated  to  display  his  qualities 
of  mind  and  manner  in  their  best  light  —  is  full  of  fancy 
and  observation,  conveyed  in  a  style  of  exuberant  rich- 
ness. There  is  one  sentence  w^hich  well  illustrates  the 
affluence  and  ease  of  expression  which  he  had  so  readily 
at  command.  "  There  are  passages,"  he  says,  "  and 
those  neither  few  nor  brief,  over  which  the  very  Genius 
of  Poetry  seems  to  have  breathed  his  richest  enchant- 
ment, —  where  the  melody  of  the  verse  and  the  beauty 
of  the  images  conspire  so  harmoniously  with  the  force 
and  tenderness  of  the  emotion,  that  the  whole  is  blended 
into  one  deep  and  bright  stream  of  sweetness  and  feel- 
ing, along  which  the  spirit  of  the  reader  is  borne  pas- 
sively away,  through  long  reaches  of  delight ." 

The  passage  on  Shakspeare,  in  the  review  of  Hazlitt, 
is  another  instance  of  his  sweetness  and  luxuriance  of 
diction.  Though  it  is  well  known,  we  cannot  resist  the 
inclination  to  quote  it. 

"  111  the  exposition  of  these  is  room  enough  for  originality,  — 
and  more  room  than  Mr.  Hazlitt  has  yet  filled.  In  many  points, 
however,  he  has  acquitted  himself  excellently;  —  partly  in  th« 
lievclopment  of  the  principal  chara';ters  with  which  Shakspear 
has  peopled  the  fancies  of  all  English  readers  —  but  principally 


BRITISH    CRITICS.  iOV 

ye  think,  in  the  delicate  sensibility  with  which  he  has  traced, 
md  the  natural  eloquence  with  which  he  has  pointed  out,  that 
amiliarity  with  beautiful  forms  and  images  —  that  eternal  re 
uirrence  to  what  is  sweet  or  majestic  in  the  simple  aspects  of 
nature  —  that  indestructible  love  of  flowers  and  odors,  and  dews 
and  clear  waters,  and  soft  airs  and  sounds,  and  bright  skies,  and 
woodland  solitudes,  and  moonlight  bowers,  which  are  the  mate- 
rial elements  of  poetry  —  and  that  fine  sense  of  their  undefinable 
relation  to  mental  emotion,  which  is  its  essence  and  vivifying 
soul,  and  which  it  the  midst  of  Shakspeare's  most  busy  an(. 
atrocious  scenes,  falls  like  gleams  of  sunshine  on  rocks  and 
ruins,  contrasting  with  all  that  is  rugged  and  repulsive,  and 
reminding  us  of  the  existence  of  purer  and  brighter  elements, 
which  he  alone  has  poured  out  from  the  richness  of  his  own 
mind,  without  effort  or  restraint,  and  contrived  to  intermingle 
with  the  play  of  all  the  passions  and  the  vulgar  course  of  this 
world's  aflairs,  without  deserting  for  an  instant  the  proper  busi- 
ness of  the  scene,  or  appearing  to  pause  or  digress  from  love  of 
ornament  or  need  of  repose  ;  —  he  alone,  who,  when  the  object 
requires  it,  is  always  keen,  and  worldly,  and  practical  —  and 
who  5'et,  without  changing  his  hand,  or  stopping  his  course, 
scatters  around  him,  as  he  goes,  all  sounds  and  shapes  of  sweet- 
ness, and  conjures  up  landscapes  of  immortal  fragrance  and 
freshness,  and  peoples  them  with  spirits  of  glorious  aspect  and 
attractive  grace  —  and  is  a  thousand  times  more  full  of  fancy, 
and  imagery,  and  splendor,  than  those  who,  for  the  sake  of  such 
qualities,  have  shrunk  back  from  the  delineation  of  character  or 
passion,  and  declined  the  discussion  of  human  duties  and  cares. 
More  full  of  wisdom,  and  ridicule,  and  sagacity,  than  all  the 
moralists  and  satirists  in  existence,  —  he  is  more  wild,  airy,  and 
inventive,  and  more  pathetic  and  fantastic,  than  all  the  poet.^ 
Df  .'L.  regions  and  ages  of  the  world  —  and  has  all  those  ele- 
ments so  happily  mixed  up  in  him,  and  bears  his  high  faculties 
so  temperately,  that  the  most  severe  reader  cannot  complain  of 
him  for  want  of  strength  or  of  reason,  nor  the  most  sensitii'e 
for  defect  of  ornament  or  ingenuity.  Everything  in  him  is 
in  unmeasured  abundance,  and  ULequalled  perfection — but 
?ve)ything  so  balanced  and  kept  in    subordmation,   ris  not  to 


lUS  ESSAYS    AND   REVIEWS. 

jostle,  or  disturb,  or  take  the  place  of  another.  The  most  exqui 
site  poetical  conceptions,  images  and  descriptions,  are  given 
with  such  brevity,  and  introduced  with  such  skill,  as  merely  to 
adorn,  without  loading,  the  sense  they  accompany.  Although 
his  sails  are  purple  and  perfumed,  and  his  prow  of  beaten  gold, 
they  waft  him  on  his  voyage,  not  less  but  more  rapidly  and 
directly  than  if  they  had  been  composed  of  baser  materials. 
All  his  excellences,  like  those  of  Nature  herself,  are  thrown 
out  together ;  and  instead  of  interfering  with,  support  a:id 
recommend  each  other.  His  flowers  are  not  tied  up  in  garlands, 
nor  his  fruits  crushed  into  baskets  —  but  spring  living  from  the 
soil,  in  all  the  dew  and  freshness  of  youth  ;  while  the  graceful 
foliage  in  which  they  lurk,  and  the  ample  branches,  the  rough 
and  vigorous  stem,  and  the  wide-spreading  roots  on  which  they 
depend,  are  present  along  with  them,  and  share,  in  their  places, 
the  equal  care  of  their  Creator." 

Every  reader  will  appreciate  the  voluble  beauty  of  this 
loving  description  ;  and  passages  almost  equal  to  it,  in 
richness  and  melody,  are  not  infrequently  found  in  the 
multifarious  critiques  of  the  author.  The  elaborate  dis- 
quisition on  Beauty,  though  founded  on  a  mistaken 
theory,  is  written  with  a  grace  and  unstudied  ease 
which  cannot  fail  to  interest  and  charm.  We  could  not, 
without  trespassing  beyond  our  limits,  enter  into  a  dis- 
cussion to  test  the  force  of  its  reasoning  or  the  pertinence 
of  its  illustrations ;  but  we  think  that  no  poet,  who  ever 
created  new  beauty,  could  subscribe  to  Jeffrey's  theory 
without  doing  violence  to  his  nature.  By  making  beauty 
dependent  on  the  association  of  external  things  with 
the  ordinary  emotions  and  affections  of  our  nature,  by 
denying  its  existence,  both  as  an  inward  sense  and  as  an 
Dutward  reality,  he  substantially  annihilates  it.  His 
theory  of  "  agreeable  sensations  "  would  find  but  little 
toleration  from  any  whose  souls  had  ever  been  awed  be- 
>ore  the  presence  of  the  highest  Beauty  which  the  mind 


BRITISH    CRITICS.  109 

tan  recognize.  Jeffrey  has  not  made  out  his  case  even 
from  his  own  point  of  view ;  and  a  reader,  who  carefully 
follows  the  ingenious  twists  and  turrit  of  his  argument, 
finds  that  the  theory  is  radically  superficial,  or  continu- 
.ally  supposes  the  /ery  principles  it  aims  to  reason  away. 
He  misconceives  the  nature  and  processes  of  the  imag- 
ination, or,  rather,  in  the  dazzling  fence  of  his  rhetoric, 
imagination  is  used  more  as  a  meaningless  word  than  as 
that  power  which, 

"Like  to  the  fabled  Cytherea's  zone, 
Biudiug  all  things  with  beauty," 

IS  not  only  the  bond  which  unites  the  soul  with  external 
objects,  and  gives  the  feeling  and  sense  of  beauty,  but 
likewise  suggests  a  loveliness  grander  than  both,  com- 
pared with  which  all  finite  beauty  is  insignificant.  The 
contempt  with  which  he  refers  to  a  "  rapturous  Platonic 
doctrine  as  to  the  existence  of  a  Supreme  Good  and 
Beauty,  and  of  a  certain  internal  sense,  by  which  both 
beauty  and  moral  merit  are  distinguished,"  shows  that 
his  consciousness  had  never  been  disturbed  by  a  class  of 
phenomena  vitally  important  to  a  settlement  of  the  ques- 
tion he  discusses.  Carlyle,  in  an  article  in  the  Edin- 
burgh Review,  published  in  1829,  entitled  "  Signs  of  the. 
Times,"  quietly  sneers  at  the  editor's  whole  theory,  we 
believe,  without  condescending  to  expend  any  argument 
upon  it.  The  same  writer  has  contradicted,  in  the  Edin- 
burgh Review,  Jeffrey's  estimate  of  Goethe,  of  German 
.'iterature  in  general,  and  of  Burns,  wiih  the  most  pro- 
voking coolness. 

Perhaps  the  ablest  and  most  interesting  contributions 
of  Jeffrey  to  the  review  were  those  in  which  he  por- 
trayed the  characters  of  eminent  authors  and  politicians. 


10  ESSAYS    AND   REVIEWS. 

such  as  his  articles  on  Swift,  Warburton,  Burns,  Frank- 
lin, Alfieri,  Mackintosh,  Curran,  Richardson,  and  Cowper. 
The  impeachment  of  Swift  of  high  crimes  and  misde- 
meanors, before  the  bar  of  history,  is  a  masterpiece  of 
its  kind,  and  has  obtained  deserved  celebrity.  The  viceH 
of  his  character  are  exposed  with  tremendous  force,  and, 
considered  as  an  argument  drawn  simply  from  the  actions 
of  the  man,  the  article  is  conclusive.  But  even  in  this 
able  and  powerful  paper  the  deficiencies  of  Jeffrey  are 
still  apparent.  In  delineating  character,  he  did  it  from 
the  "  skin  inwards,  and  not  from  the  heart  outwards." 
His  own  character  was  the  test  he  ever  applied.  He  had 
not  imagination  enough  to  identify  himself  with  another, 
and  look  at  things  from  his  point  of  view.  Thus,  all  the 
palliations  which  bad  or  questionable  actions  might  re- 
ceive from  original  temperament  or  mental  disease  were 
not  taken  into  consideration;  but  the  individual  was 
judged  from  an  antagonist  position,  according  to  the  very 
letter  which  killeth.  This  is  the  mode  of  the  advocate, 
rather  than  of  the  critic.  In  the  case  of  Swift,  the 
feeling  that  the  article  excites  against  the  man  is  one  of 
unmitigated  detestation.  A  more  profound  knowledge 
of  his  internal  character  might  have  modified  the  harsh- 
ness of  this  feeling  with  one  of  commiseration.  A  simi- 
lar remark  is  applicable  to  the  judgment  expressed  of 
Burns.  As  regards  Warburton,  however,  we  think  Jef- 
frey was  essentially  right.  Nothing  can  be  finer  than 
the  castigation  he  gives  the  insolent  and  vindictive 
bishop,  at  the  same  time  that  he  acknowledges  his  tal- 
ents and  erudition. 

Jeffrey's  political  articles  are  very  spirited  composi- 
tions, full  of  information  and  ability,  displaying  an 
admirable  practical  intellect  and  talent  fur  affairs,   an^ 


BRITISH    CRITICS.  Ill 

threat  command  over  the  weapons  both  of  logic  and 
sarcasm.  The  course  of  the  Edinburgh  Review,  in 
opposing  with  courage  and  skill  the  numeiDus  political 
crimes  and  corruptions  of  the  day,  and  the  vigor  with 
which  it  scourged  tyranny  and  its  apologists,  though  too 
often  alloyed  by  wilful  injustice  to  authors  who  happened 
to  be  classed  with  the  tory  party,  will  always  be  remcm 
bered  in  its  favor.  The  part  which  the  editor  took  in 
the  political  warfare  of  the  time  was  honorable  to  his 
talents  and  his  integrity.  Though  the  extreme  practical 
view  he  takes  of  government  and  freedom  is  not  always 
to  our  taste,  and  though  we  could  have  wished  that  he 
possessed  a  deeper  faith  in  human  nature,  and  principles 
deeper  grounded  in  right  and  less  modified  by  expedien- 
cy, it  would  be  unjust  to  deny  his  claim  to  be  considered 
among  the  most  prominent  of  those  who,  in  small  minor- 
ities and  with  the  whole  influence  of  the  government 
against  them,  warred  for  years,  with  inflexible  zeal,  to 
overthrow  great  abuses,  and  remove  pestilent  prejudices. 
The  critical  and  historical  essays  contributed  to  the 
Edinburgh  Review  by  Thomas  Babington  Macaitlay 
have  obtained  a  wide  celebrity.  Compared  with  Jeffrey, 
he  may  be  said  to  have  more  earnestness,  industry,  learn- 
ing, energy  of  feeling,  more  intellectual  and  moral  hardi- 
hood, and  a  wider  range  of  argumentation,  but  less  grace, 
ease,  subtilty,  and  sweetness.  There  are  few  contempo- 
rary writers  more  purely  masculine,  more  free  from  all 
feminine  fastidiousness  of  taste  and  sentiment,  more 
richly  endowed  with  the  qualities  of  a  hard  and  robust 
manhood,  than  Macaulay.  His  diction  acd  style  of 
thmking  indicate  physical  as  well  as  mental  strength, 
and  a  contemptuous  impatience  cf  all  weak  emotions. 
He  never  commits  himself  on  an"/  suoject  until  he  has 


112  ESSAYS    AJ^D   REVIE  rs. 

fully  mastered  it,  and  then  he  writes  like  a  person  who 
neither  expects  nor  gives  quarter,  — who  shows  no  mercy 
for  the  errors  of  others,  because  he  cares  not  to  have  any 
shown  to  his  own.  Though  a  good  analyst,  his  chief 
strength  lies  in  generalization.  He  would  hardly  conde- 
scend, like  JeflTrey,  to  pause  and  play  with  the  details  of  a 
subject,  or  fritter  away  his  acuteness  in  petty  refinements  ; 
but  he  always  aims  to  grasp  general  principles.  He  has 
one  power  that  JefTrey  lacks,  —  the  capacity  to  learn  from 
other  minds.  Accustomed  to  look  before  and  after,  to 
view  a  literary  or  a  political  revolution  in  its  connection 
with  general  history,  his  taste  and  judgment  are  compre- 
hensive in  the  sense  of  not  being  fettered  by  conventional 
rules.  He  has  considerable  rectitude  of  intellect,  and  a 
desire  to  ascertain  the  truth  of  things.  His  literary  crit- 
icism refers  to  the  great  elements  or  the  prominent  char- 
acteristic of  an  author's  mind,  not  to  the  minutiee  of  his 
rhetoric  or  his  superficial  beauties  and  faults.  With  Jef- 
frey, the  reverse  is  often  true.  His  wit  and  acuteness 
are  so  continually  exercised  in  detecting  and  caricaturing 
small  defects,  that  the  result  of  his  representation  is  to 
magnify  the  faults  of  his  author  into  characteristics,  and 
to  consider  his  excellences  as  exceptions  to  the  general 
rule.  Macaulay,  by  taking  a  higher  point  of  view,  by 
his  willingness  to  receive  instruction  as  well  as  to  admin- 
ister advice,  contrives  to  give  more  effect  to  his  censures 
of  faults,  by  keeping  them  in  strict  subordination  to  his 
warm  acknowledgment  of  merits.  The  skill  with  which 
he  does  this  entitles  him  to  high  praise  as  an  artist.  He 
has  attempted  to  delineate  a  large  number  of  eminent 
men  of"  action  and  speculation,  many  of  whose  charac- 
ters present  a  seemingly  tangled  web  of  virtues  and  vices; 
and  he  has  been  almost  always  successful  in  preserving 


BRITISH    CRITICS.  113 

►he  keeping  of  character,  and  the  relation  which  diFTerent 
qualities  bear  to  each  other.  He  places  himself  in  the 
position  of  the  man  whose  character  and  actions  he 
judges,  seizv?s  upon  his  leading  traits  of  mind  and  dispo- 
sition, and  ascertains  the  relation  borne  to  them  by  his 
other  powers  and  feelings.  As  his  object  is  to  represent 
his  subject  pictorially  to  the  imagination,  as  well  as  ana- 
lytically to  the  understanding,  and  at  all  events  to  stamp 
a  correct  portrait  on  the  mind  of  the  reader,  he  sometimes 
epigrammatically  exaggerates  leading  traits,  in  order  that 
the  complexity  of  the  character  may  not  prevent  the  per- 
ception of  its  individuality.  This  epigrammatic  manner 
has  often  been  censured  as  a  fault,  —  in  some  instances 
mstly  censured ;  but  we  think  that  his  use  of  it  often 
evinces  as  much  wisdom  as  wit ;  for  his  object  is  to  con- 
fey  the  truth  more  vividly,  by  suggesting  it  through  the 
medium  of  a  brilliant  exaggeration.  No  person  is  so 
simple  as  to  give  the  epigram  a  literal  interpretation ; 
and  all  must  acknowledge,  that  at  times  it  is  an  arrow  of 
light,  sent  directly  into  the  heart  of  the  matter  under 
discussion. 

There  is  probably  no  writer  living  who  can  hold  up  a 
great  criminal  to  infamy  with  such  terrible  force  of  invec- 
tive and  sarcasm  as  Macaulay,  Scattered  over  his 
essays,  we  find  references  to  men  and  events  that  have 
become  immortal  through  their  criminality ;  and  he  has 
allowed  few  such  occasions  to  pass  without  a  flash  of 
scorn  or  an  outbreak  of  fiery  indignation.  All  instances 
of  bigotry,  meanness,  selfishness,  and  cruelty,  especially 
if  they  are  overlaid  with  sophistical  defences,  he  opposes 
with  a  force  of  reason  and  energy  of  passion  which  ren- 
der them  as  ridiculous  as  they  are  infamous.  He  is 
especially  severe  agains;  those  panders  to  tyranny  who 

VOL.  H.  8 


114  ESSAYS    AND   REVIEWS. 

attempt  to  reason  base  actions  into  respectability,  and  to 
give  guilt  the  character  of  wisdom.  He  crushes  all  such 
opponents  with  a  kind  of  merciless  strength.  Even 
when  his  view  of  a  person  is  on  the  whole  favorable,  he 
never  defends  any  crime  he  commits.  This  is  the  case 
in  the  most  difficult  and  delicate  task  he  ever  undertook, 
—  the  character  and  actions  of  Warren  Hastings.  No 
one  can  be  more  severe  than  he  on  Mr.  Gleig,  the  biog- 
rapher and  apologist  of  Hastings.  Every  instance  of 
oppression  and  cruelty  which  comes  under  his  notice  he 
condemns  with  the  utmost  indignation ;  but  in  summing 
up  the  character,  he  balances  great  crimes  against  great 
difficulties  and  strong  temptations.  The  reader  is  at  lib- 
erty to  take  an  opposite  view,  and,  indeed,  is  supplied 
with  the  materials  of  an  impartial  moral  judgment, 
Macaulay's  admiration  for  great  intellectual  powers  and 
talent  for  administration  is  preserved  amid  all  the  detest- 
ation he  feels  for  the  crimes  by  which  they  may  be 
accompanied.  This  is  the  amount  of  his  toleration  for 
Warren  Hastings.  In  the  case  of  Barere,  however,  he 
had  to  do  with  a  man  as  mean  in  intellect  as  he  was 
fiendlike  in  disposition ;  and  his  delineation  of  him  is 
masterly.  The  skill  with  which  the  essential  littleness 
of  the  man  is  kept  in  view  amid  all  the  greatness  of  his 
crimes,  the  mingled  contempt  and  horror  which  his 
actions  inspire,  and  the  felicity  with  which  his  cruelty  is 
always  associated  with  his  cowardice  and  baseness,  are 
in  Macaulay's  finest  manner. 

We  have  introduced  this  notice  of  Macaulay  rather  to 
ulustrate  the  objection  to  JefTr^.y,  than  from  any  hope  or 
mtention  to  give  his  various  \  'ritings  a  strict  review ; 
and  we  accordingly  pass  to  another  eminent  essayist  and 
critic,  Sir  James  Mackintosh.     His  miscellaneous  com- 


BRITISH   CRITICS. 


115 


positions  are  now  in  the  course  of  publication  in  London. 
He  is  known  as  the  author  of  various  political,  literary, 
and  philosophical  articles,  in  the  Edinburgh  Review.  It 
would  be  difficult  to  mention  any  writer,  whose  name 
has  been  connected  with  the  literary  journals  of  the  nine- 
teenth century,  who  has  carried  into  the  task  of  criticism 
so  much  fairness  and  moderation  as  Mackintosh.  His 
nature  was  singularly  free  from  asperity  and  dogmatism. 
To  a  large  understanding,  and  boundless  stores  of  know!  • 
edge,  he  united  candor,  and  even  humility,  in  their 
employment.  His  mind  was  eminently  judicial.  From 
the  character  of  his  intellectual  powers,  and  the  moral 
qualities  from  which  they  received  their  direction,  it  was 
natural  for  him  to  look  at  things  with  an  impartial  desire 
to  arrive  at  truth,  and  to  view  both  sides  of  every  ques- 
tion. He  had  no  intellectual  pride,  no  love  for  principles 
simply  because  they  were  his  by  discovery  or  adoption. 
His  mind  was  always  open  to  new  truth.  As  far  as  his 
perceptions  extended,  he  ever  did  full  and  complete  jus- 
tice to  all  systems  of  philosophy  or  legislation  which 
came  under  his  notice.  He  was  incapable  of  misrepre- 
senting a  personal  enemy  or  a  political  opponent.  We 
have  sometimes  thought  that  an  argument  for  the  whig 
party  of  Great  Britain  might  be  built  on  the  simple  fact 
that  their  general  principles  and  conduct  were  warmly 
approTed  by  a  man  of  so  much  comprehensiveness  of 
heart  and  understanding,  and  so  much  freedom  from 
partisanship,  as  Sir  James  Mackintosh. 

The  intellectual  and  moral  character  of  this  eminent 
man  are  so  closely  connected  that  it  is  diihcult  tci  view 
thewi  separately.  We  do  not  think  his  works  a'e  fair 
and  full  exponents  of  his  nature  ;  and  his  reputation  was 
tlways  justly  greater  for  what  he  was  than  for  wl  at  he 


ll6  ESSAYS   AND    REVIEWS. 

performed,  valuable  as  were  most  of  his  performances 
His  friends  and  associates  were  among  the  greatest  intel- 
lects of  his  time,  and  he  was  respected  and  venerated 
by  them  all.  His  name  always  carried  with  it  a  moral 
influence  ;  and  wherever  heard,  it  was  always  associated 
with  sound  and  weighty  views  of  philosophy,  with  lib- 
eral principles  of  government,  with  learning,  humanity, 
justice,  and  freedom.  His  influence  was  great,  although 
it  was  not  so  palpable  as  that  of  many  among  his  con- 
temporaries ;  and  it  will  be  permanent.  A  man  of  so 
much  uprightness  and  virtue,  placed  in  such  a  promi- 
nent position,  and  mingling  daily  with  his  contemporaries 
as  a  practical  statesman  and -philosopher,  could  not  fail 
to  wield  unconsciously  great  power  over  the  opinions  and 
actions  of  his  generation ;  and  the  beauty  of  his  charac- 
ter v,^ill  long  continue  to  exert  an  influence,  in  insensibly 
moulding  the  minds  of  scholars  and  statesmen,  and  giv- 
ing a  humane  and  moral  direction  to  their  powers. 

Among  the  critical  essays  contributed  by  Mackintosh 
to  the  Edinburgh  Review,  the  most  distinguished  are  his 
two  articles  on  Dugald  Stewart's  review  of  the  "  Pro- 
gress of  Ethical,  Metaphysical,  and  Political  Science." 
These  are  eminently  characteristic  of  his  mind  and  char- 
acter, being  remarkable  rather  for  largeness  of  view  than 
strength  of  grasp,  and  free  altogether  from  the  fanaticism 
of  system.  The  sketches  of  Aquinas,  Bacon,  Descartes, 
Hobbes,  Locke,  Boyle,  Leibnitz,  Machiavel,  Montaigne 
Grotius,  PufTendorf,  Barrow,  and  Jeremy  Taylor,  abound 
in  profound  remark,  and  often  in  delicate  criticism.  The 
different  thinkers  who  pass  before  him  for  review  he 
treats  with  admirable  fairness,  and  sets  forth  their  lead- 
ing principles  in  a  clear  light.  Though  the  style  is 
elegant  and  condensed,  it  is  at  times  languid,  as  if  it 


BRITISH    CRITICS.  117 

paused  in  its  movement  with  the  pauses  of  the  writer's 
judgment,  or  its  pace  was  retarded  by  the  mass  of 
thought  and  erudition  it  conveyed.  Occasionally  it 
becomes  a  little  verbose,  from  the  introduction  of  words 
to  restrain  the  full  force  of  general  epithets,  or  to  indicate 
minute  distinctions.  A  large  number  of  striking  thoughts 
might  be  quoted  from  these  articles.  They  can  be  read 
again  and  again,  with  pleasure  and  instruction.  The 
weight,  solidity,  and  coolness  of  understanding,  of  which 
Mackintosh's  disquisitions  give  so  marked  an  example, 
remind  the  reader  more  of  the  judicial  minds  of  the  old 
English  prose  writers,  than  of  the  pugnacious  and  parti- 
san intellects  of  the  moderns.  They  lack  the  fire  both 
of  passion  and  prejudice ;  but  their  mingled  gravity  and 
sweetness  of  feeling,  and  amplitude  of  comprehension, 
will  always  preserve  their  interest.  His  miscellaneous 
essays  and  reviews,  vphen  collected,  will  occupy,  we 
think,  a  permanent  place  in  the  higher  literature  of  the 
generation  of  thinkers  to  which  he  belongs. 

The  various  disquisitions  of  Sir  William  Hamilton 
seem  to  have  attracted  but  little  attention  on  this  side  of 
the  Atlantic,  from  the  fact  that  they  deal  with  subjects 
somewhat  removed  from  popular  taste  and  popular  appre- 
hension ;  yet  it  would  be  difhcult  to  name  any  contribu- 
tions to  a  review  which  display  such  a  despotic  com- 
mand of  all  the  resources  of  logic  and  metaphysics  as 
his  articles  in  the  Edinburgh  Review  on  Cousin,  Dr. 
Brown,  and  Bishop  Whately.  Apart  from  their  scien- 
tific value,  they  should  be  read  as  specimens  of  intellect- 
ual power.  They  evince  more  intense  strength  of  un- 
derstanding than  any  other  writings  of  the  age;  and  in 
the  blended  merits  of  their  logic,  rhetoric,  and  learning, 
they  may  challenge  comparison  with  the  best  works  oi" 


il8  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

any  British  metaphysicians.  He  seems  to  have  read 
every  writer,  ancient  and  modern,  on  logic  and  metaphy- 
sics, and  is  conversant  with  every  philosophical  theory, 
from  the  lowest  form  of  materialism  to  the  most  abstract 
development  of  idealism  ;  and  yet  his  learning  is  not  so 
remarkable  as  the  thorough  manner  in  which  he  has 
digested  it,  and  the  perfect  command  he  has  of  all  its 
stores.  Everything  that  he  comprehends,  no  matter 
how  abstruse,  he  comprehends  with  the  utmost  clear- 
ness, and  employs  with  consummate  skill.  He  is  alto- 
gether the  best  trained  reasoner  on  abstract  subjects  of 
his  time.  He  is  a  most  terrible  adversary,  because  his 
logic  is  unalloyed  by  an  atom  of  passion  or  prejudice; 
and  nothing  is  more  merciless  than  the  intellect.  No 
fallacy,  or  sophism,  or  half-proof,  can  escape  his  analysis, 
and  he  is  pitiless  in  its  exposure.  His  method  is  to 
strike  directly  at  his  object,  and  he  accomplishes  it  in  a 
few  stern,  brief  sentences.  His  path  is  over  the  wreck 
of  opinions,  which  he  demolishes  as  he  goes.  After  he 
has  decided  a  question,  it  seems  to  be  at  rest  forever,  for 
his  rigorous  logic  leaves  no  room  for  controversy.  He 
will  not  allow  his  adversary  a  single  loop-hole  for  escape. 
He  forces  him  back  from  one  position  to  another,  he  trips 
up  his  most  ingenious  reasonings,  and  leaves  him  at  the 
end  naked  and  defenceless,  mournfully  gathering  up  the 
scattered  fragments  of  his  once  symmetrical  system. 
The  article  on  "  Cousin's  Course  of  Philosophy,"  and 
that  on  "  Reid  and  Brown,"  are  grand  examples  cf  this 
gladiatorial  exercise  of  intellectual  power. 

Hamilton  is  not  only  a  great  logician,  but  a  great  rhet« 
orician.     His  matter  is  arranged  with  the  utmost  art 
his  'style  is  a  model  of  philosophical  clearness,  concise 
ness,  and  energy.     Every  word  is  in  its  right  place,  ha.. 


BRITISH    CRITICS.  119 

ft  precise  scientific  meaning,  can  stand  the  severest  tests 
of  analysis,  and  bears  but  one  interpretation.  He  is  as 
impregnable  in  his  terms  as  in  his  argument;  and  with 
all  the  hard  accuracy  of  his  language,  the  movement  of 
his  style  is  as  rapid,  and  sometimes  as  brilliant,  as  tha4 
of  Macaulay.  It  seems  to  drag  on  the  mind  of  the 
student  by  pure  force.  The  key  to  a  whole  philosophical 
system  is  often  given  in  a  single  emphatic  sentence, 
vhose  stern  compression  has  sometimes  the  effect  of 
Bpigram,  —  as  when  he  condenses  the  results  of  the 
Scotch  philosophy  into  these  few  words  : — "It  proved 
that  intelligence  svpposed  principles,  which,  as  the  con- 
ditions of  its  activity,  could  not  be  the  results  of  its  oper- 
ation ;  and  that  the  mind  contained  notions,  which,  as 
primitive,  necessary,  and  universal,  were  not  to  be  ex- 
plained as  generalizations  from  the  contingent  and  par- 
ticular, about  which  alone  our  external  experience  was 
conversant.  The  phenomena  of  mind  were  thus  distin- 
g-uished  from  the  phenomena  of  matter,  and  if  the  impos- 
sibility of  materialism  were  not  demonstrated,  there  was, 
at  least,  demonstrated  the  impossibility  of  its  proof." 
The  mastery  of  his  subject,  which  Hamilton  possesses, 
the  perfect  order  with  which  his  thoughts  are  arranged, 
and  his  exact  knowledge  of  terms,  free  him  altogether 
from  that  comparative  vassalage  to  words  which  so  often 
confuses  the  understandings  of  metaphysicians.  His 
style  has  the  hard  brilliancy  of  polished  steel ;  its  lustn 
comes  from  its  strength  and  compactness. 

Among  his  contributions  to  the  Edinburgh  Review, 
besides  thooe  already  enumerated,  are  the  articles  on  the 
"  Universities  of  England,"  on  "  Recent  Publications  on 
Logical  Science,"  and  on  "Johnson's  Translation  of 
Tennemaa's  History  of  Philosophy."     The  most  pleas- 


120  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

ing  to  the  general  reader  would  be  the  article  on  Cousin 
although  that  on  the  Philosophy  of  Perception  display? 
to  greater  advantage  his  immense  stores  of  metaphysica, 
learning  and  his  intensity  of  thought.  None  of  his 
articles  have  ever  been  answered.  Indeed,  on  logical 
principles,  they  are  probably  unanswerable.  The  disqui- 
sition on  Cousin,  which  comprehends  not  only  a  review 
of  his  philosophy,  but  a  consideration  of  the  whole 
ground  of -Rationalism,  and  a  course  of  argument  directed 
against  all  philosophical  theories  of  the  Infinite,  is  admi- 
rably calculated  for  the  present  state  of  speculation  in 
this  country,  however  unpalatable  may  be  its  doctrines. 
He  takes  the  position,  that  our  knowledge  is  restricted 
within  the  domain  of  the  finite,  —  that  we  have  no  im- 
mediate knowledge  of  things,  but  only  of  their  phenom- 
ena, —  and  that,  in  every  attempt  to  fix  the  absolute  as 
a  positive  in  knowledge,  "  the  absolute,  like  the  water  in 
the  sieves  of  the  Danaides,  has  always  hitherto  run 
through  as  a  negative  into  the  abyss  of  nothing."  As  a 
specimen  of  the  style,  we  extract  his  statement  of  the 
opinions  "  which  may  be  entertained  regarding  the  un- 
conditioned as  an  immediate  object  of  knowledge  and 
thought." 

"  These  opinions  may  be  reduced  to  four  :  —  1.  The  uncon- 
ditioned is  incognizable  and  inconceivable ;  its  notion  being 
only  negative  of  the  conditioned,  which  last  can  alone  be  posi- 
tively known  or  conceived.  2.  It  is  not  an  object  of  knowledge  ; 
but  its  notion,  as  a  regulative  principle  of  the  mind  itself,  is 
more  than  a  mere  negation  of  the  conditioned.  3.  It  is  cogniz- 
able, but  not  conceivable  ;  it  can  be  known  by  sinking  back 
into  identity  with  the  absolute,  but  is  incomprehensible  by  con- 
scioitsness  and  reflection,  which  are  only  of  the  relative  and  the 
different.  4.  It  is  cognizable  and  conceivable  by  consciousness 
and  reflection,  under  relation,  difference,  and  plurality. 


BRITISH    CRITICS.  121 

"  The  first  of  these  opinions  we  regard  as  true  ;  the  second 
IS  held  by  Kant ;  the  third  by  Schelling ;  and  the  last  by  our 
author. 

"1.  In  our  opinion,  the  mind  can  conceive,  and  consequently 
can  know,  only  the  limited  and  the  conditionally  limited.  The 
iinconditionally  unlimited,  or  the  infinite,  the  unconditionally 
limited,  or  the  absolute,  cannot  positively  be  construed  to  the 
mind ;  they  can  be  conceived  at  all  only  by  a  thinking  away, 
or  abstraction,  of  those  very  conditions  under  which  thought 
itself  is  realized ;  consequently  the  notion  of  the  unconditioned 
is  only  negative,  — negative  of  the  conceivable  itself.  For  ex- 
ample, on  the  one  hand,  we  can  positively  conceive  neither  an 
absolute  whole,  that  is,  a  whole  so  great  that  we  cannot  also 
conceive  it  as  a  relative  part  of  a  still  greater  whole  ;  nor  an 
absolute  part,  that  is,  a  part  so  small  that  we  cannot  also  con- 
ceive it  as  a  relative  whole,  divisible  into  smaller  parts.  On 
the  other  liand,  we  cannot  positively  represent  to  the  mind  an 
infinite  whole,  for  this  could  only  be  done  by  the  infinite  syn- 
thesis in  thought  of  finite  wholes,  which  would  itself  require  an 
infinite  time  for  its  accomplishment ;  nor,  for  the  same  reason, 
can  we  follow  out  in  thought  an  infinite  divisibility  of  parts. 
The  result  is  the  same,  whether  we  apply  the  process  to  limita- 
tion in  space,  in  time,  or  in  degree.  The  unconditional  affirm- 
ation of  limitation  —  in  other  words,  the  infinite  and  the  afco/M^e, 
•properly  so  called*  —  are  thus  equally  inconceivable  to  us. 

"  As  the  conditionally  limited  (which  we  may  briefly  call  the 
conditioned)  is  thus  the  only  object  of  knoMiedge  and  of  positive 
thought,  thought  necessarily  supposes  conditions ;  to  think  is 
therefore  to  condition,  and  conditional  limitation  is  the  funda- 
mental law  of  the  possibility  of  thought.  How,  indeed,  it  could 
erer  be  doubted  that  thought  is  only  of  the  conditioned,  may 
well  be    deemed   a    matter   of   the    profoundest    admiration. 

*  "It  13  proper  10  observe  thai  though  we  are  of  opinion  that  the  terms 
Infinite  ai.d  Absolute,  and  Unconditioned,  ouglit  not  to  be  confounded,  ami 
accurately  distinguish  thsm  in  the  statement  of  our  own  view  ;  yet,  in 
speaking  of  the  doctrines  of  those  by  whom  ih-y  are  indifferently  employed, 
we  have  not  thought  it  necessary,  or  rather  we  have  found  it  impossible,  to 
adhere  to  the  distinction." 


122  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

Thought  cannot  transcend  consciousness  ;  consciousness  is  only 
possible  under  the  antithesis  of  a  subject  and  object  of  thought, 
known  only  in  correlation  and  mutually  limiting  each  other  • 
while,  independently  of  this,  all  we  know  either  of  subject  or 
object,  either  mind  or  matter,  is  only  a  knowledge  in  each  of 
the  particular,  of  the  diiferent,  of  the  modified,  of  the  phenome- 
nal. We  admit  that  the  consequence  of  this  doctrine  is,  that 
philosophy,  if  viewed  as  more  than  a  science  of  the  conditioned, 
is  impossible.  Departing  from  the  particular,  we  admit  that  we 
can  never,  in  our  highest  generalization,  rise  above  the  finite  ; 
that  our  knowledge,  whether  of  mind  or  matter,  can  be  nothing 
more  than  a  knowledge  of  the  relative  manifestations  of  an  ex- 
istence which,  in  itself,  it  is  our  highest  wisdom  to  recognize  as 
beyond  the  reach  of  philosophy  :  —  Cognoscendo  ignorari,  et  igno- 
rando  cognosci.^' 


A  collection  of  Sir  William  Hamilton's  articles,  as  far 
as  they  are  generally  known,  might  easily  be  contained 
in  a  moderately  sized  voltime,  and  we  trust  it  will  soon 
be  made.  Such  a  book  could  not  fail  to  be  sticcessful, 
even  in  the  publisher's  notion  of  that  word ;  and  it  would 
familiarize  the  minds  of  our  students  with  far  more 
rigorous  habits  of  thinking  and  investigation  than  are 
now  in  vogue.  Three  or  four  of  the  ablest  of  these 
papers  have  already  been  translated  into  French,  and 
published  in  a  single  volume  at  Paris. 

William  Gifford,  the  editor  of  the  Quarterly  Review, 
seems  to  have  united  in  himself  all  the  bad  qualities 
of  the  criticism  of  his  time.  He  was  fierce,  dogmatic, 
ligoted,  libellous,  and  unsympathizing.  Whatever  may 
have  been  his  talents,  they  were  exquisitely  unfitted  for 
his  position  —  his  literary  judgments  being  contemptible 
where  any  sense  of  beauty  was  required,  and  principally 
distinguished  for  malice  and  word-picking.  The  bittej 
and  snarling  s-pirit  with  which   he   commented   on   the 


BRITISH    CRITICS.  123 

excellence  he  could  not  appreciate ;  the  extreme  narrow- 
ness and  shallowness  of  his  taste  ;  the  labored  black- 
guardism in  which  he  was  wont  to  indulge,  under  the 
impression  that  it  was  satire ;  his  detestable  habit  of 
carrying  his  political  hatreds  into  literary  criticism ;  his 
gross  personal  attacks  on  Hunt,  Hazlitt,  and  others  who 
might  happen  to  profess  less  illiberal  principles  than  his 
cwn  ;  made  him  a  dangerous  and  disagreeable  adversary, 
and  one  of  the  worst  critics  of  modern  times.  Through 
his  position  as  the  editor  of  an  influential  journal,  his 
enmity  acquired  an  importance  due  neither  to  his  talents 
nor  his  character.  His  notoriety  was  coextensive  w^ith  his 
malignity ;  his  fame  consisted  in  having  the  power  to 
wound  better  men  than  himself;  and  consequently,  from 
being  a  terror  and  a  scourge,  he  has  now  passed  into 
oblivion,  or  is  only  occasionally  rescued  from  it  to  be  an 
object  of  wondering  contempt.  As  far  as  his  influence 
in  the  management  of  the  review  extended,  it  was  em- 
ployed to  serve  the  meanest  and  dirtiest  ends  of  his 
party,  and  the  exploded  principles  of  a  past  literary  taste  ; 
and  it  was  owing  to  no  fault  of  his,  tljpt  the  journal  did 
not  become  a  synonyme  of  malignant  dulness  and  fero- 
cious illiberality,  and  feed  to  the  full  the  vulgar  appetite 
for  defamation.  Nothing  but  the  occasional  contribu- 
tions of  eminent  writers  and  scholars  prevented  it  from 
sinking  to  the  dead  level  of  his  intellect  and  prejudices. 
The  blindness  which  partisan  warfare  produces,  even  in 
men  of  education  and  courtesy,  could  alone  have  per- 
mitted the  organ  of  a  great  party  to  be  under  the 
management  of  this  critical  Ketch,  this  political  Quilp. 
His  acumen  was  shown  in  his  profound  appreciation  of 
works  which  died  as  soon  as  puffed,  and  in  his  insensi- 
bility to  those  whose  fame  was  destined  to  begin  with 


T 


124  ESSAYS    AND    RE\^IEWS. 

his  oblivion ;  and  his  statesmanship,  in  the  low  abuse  o( 
individuals,  in  a  resolute  defence  of  the  rotten  parts  of 
toryism,  and  in  assiduous  libels  on  foreign  countries.  It 
is  to  him,  we  presume,  that  we  are  indebted  for  the  lies 
and  blunders  about  the  United  States  for  which  tnt 
Quarterly  was  once  distinguished. 

To  Gifford  for  a  time  belonged  the  equivocal  fame  of 
killing  John  Keats;  but  we  are  glad  that  a  disclosure  of 
the  facts  has  lately  robbed  him  of  this  laurel  of  slander. 
It  is  quite  a  satisfaction  to  know,  that  even  the  tenderest 
and  most  sensitive  of  poets  was  beyond  the  reach  of  his 
envenomed  arrov/s.  Shelley,  in  a  monody  on  the  death 
of  Keats,  —  then  supposed  to  have  been  accelerated  by 
the  brutal  article  in  the  Quarterly,  —  has,  in  a  strain  of 
invective  hot  from  his  heart,  fixed  a  brand  on  Gifford's 
brow,  which  may  keep  it  above  the  waters  of  oblivion  for 
Bome  years  to  come. 

"  Live  tliou,  whose  infamy  is  not  thy  fame ! 
Live  !  fear  no  heavier  chastisement  from  me, 
Thou  noteless  blot  on  a  remembered  name  ! 
But  be  ihj^elf,  and  know  thyself  to  be ! 
And  ever  at  thy  season  be  thou  free 
To  spill  the  venom,  when  thy  fangs  o'erflow: 
Remorse  and  Self-contempt  shall  cling  to  thee  ; 
Hot  Shame  shall  burn  upon  thy  secret  brow, 
And  like  a  beaten  hound  tremble  thou  shalt  —  as  now. 

"Nor  let  us  weep  that  our  delight  is  fled 
Far  from  these  carrion-kites  thai  scream  below  : 
He  wakes  or  sleeps  with  the  enduring  dead  ; 
Thou  canst  not  soar  where  he  is  sitting  now,  • 
Dust  to  the  dust !  but  the  pure  spirit  shall  flow 
Back  to  the  burning  fountain  whence  it  came, 
A  portion  of  the  Eternal,  which  must  glow 
Through  time  and  change,  unquenchably  the  same, 
Whilst  thy  cold  •ambers  choke  the  sordid  hearth  of  shaine.' 


BRITISH    CRITICS. 


125^ 


The  various  critical  writings  of  William  Hazlitt  are 
aden  witli  original  and  striking  thoughts,  and  indicate 
an  intellect  strong  and  intense,  but  narrowed  by  prejudice 
and  personal  feeling.  He  was  an  acute  but  somewhat 
bitter  observer  of  life  and  manners,  and  satirized  rather 
than  described  them.  Though  bold  and  arrogant  in  the 
expression  of  his  opinions,  and  continually  provoking 
opposition  by  the  hardihood  of  his  paradoxes,  he  does  not 
appear  to  have  been  influenced  so  much  by  self-esteem 
'is  sensibility.  He  was  naturally  shy  and  despairing  of 
his  own  powers,  and  his  dogmatism  was  of  that  turbulent 
kind  which  comes  from  passion  and  self-distrust.  He 
had  little  rep(>se  of  mind  or  manner,  and  in  his  works 
almost  always  appears  as  if  his  faculties  had  been  stung 
and  spurred  into  action.  His  life  was  vexed  by  many 
troubles,  which  rendered  him  impatient  and  irritable, 
prone  to  opposition,  and  inclined  to  take  delight  in  the 
mere  exercise  of  power,  rather  than  to  produce  the  effects 
for  which  alone  power  is  valuable.  Contempt  and  bitter- 
ness too  often  vitiate  his  notions  of  men  and  measures ; 
and  his  political  writings,  especially,  often  exhibit  him  as 
one  who  courts  and  defies  opposition,  and  who  is  more 
desirous  of  making  enemies  than  converts.  He  would 
often  give  the  results  of  patient  reasonings  in  headlong 
Lssertions,  or  paradoxical  impertinences.  In  attacking 
ignorance  and  prejudice,  he  did  not  distinguish  them 
from  positive  vices.  If  any  one  of  his  opinions  was  more 
heretical  than  another,  he  sought  to  enunciate  it  with  a 
startling  abruptness  of  expression,  in  order  that  it  might 
give  the  more  offence.  There  was  bad  temper  in  this, 
and  it  made  him  violent  enemies,  and  subjected  his  char- 
acter and  writings  to  the  most  unscrupulous  attacks. 

The  element  in  which  Hazlitt's  mind  was  most  geni- 


126  ESSAYS    ANl     REVIEWS. 

ftlly  developed  was  literature.  If  he  was  lacking  in  love 
for  actual  human  nature,  or  viewed  men  in  too  intolerant 
a  spirit,  his  affections  clustered  none  the  less  intensely 
around  the  "  beings  of  the  mind."  His  best  friends  and 
companions  he  found  in  poetry  and  romance,  and  in  the 
world  of  inidgination  he  lived  his  most  delightful  days. 
As  a  critic,  in  spite  of  the  acrimony  and  prejudice  which 
occasionally  dim  his  insight,  he  is  admirable  for  acute- 
ness,  clearness,  and  force.  His  mind  pierces  and  delves 
into  his  subject,  rather  than  gracefully  comprehends  it ; 
but  his  labors  in  the  mine  almost  always  bring  out  its 
riches.  Where  his  sympathies  were  not  perverted  by 
personal  feeling  or  individual  association,  where  his 
mind  could  act  uninfluenced  by  party  spirit,  his  percep- 
tions of  truth  and  beauty  were  exquisite  in  their  force 
and  refinement.  When  he  dogmatizes,  his  paradoxes 
evince  a  clear  insight  into  one  element  of  the  truth,  and 
serve  as  admirable  stimulants  to  thought.  His  com- 
ments on  passages  of  poetry  or  traits  of  character  which 
have  struck  his  own  imagination  forcibly,  are  unrivalled 
for  warmth  of  feeling  and  coloring.  His  criticism  inspires 
the  reader  with  a  desire  to  peruse  the  works  to  which  it 
refers.  It  is  not  often  coldly  analytical,  but  glows  with 
enthusiasm  and  "  noble  rage."  His  style  is  generally 
sharp  and  pointed,  sparkling  Avith  ornament  and  illus- 
tration, but  almost  altogether  deficient  in  movement 
Though  many  of  his  opinions  are  unsound,  their  un 
soundness  is  hardly  calculated  to  mislead  the  taste  of 
the  reader;  from  the  ease  with  which  it  is  perceived,  and 
referred  to  its  source,  in  caprice,  or  a  momentaiy  fit  of 
spleen.  He  is  a  critic  who  can  give  delight  and  instruc 
tion,  and  infuse  into  his  readers  some  of  his  own  veh"« 


BRITISH    CRIliOS. 


isn 


ttient  enthusiasm  for  letters,  without  maki Jg  them  par- 
Hcipants  of  his  errors  and  passions. 

Some  of  the  most  distinguished  of  Hazlitt's  critical 
writings  are,  —  "  Lectures  on  the  Comic  Writers," 
"Spirit  of  the  Age,"  "  Characters  of  Shakspeare's  Plays," 
"  Lectures  on  the  Age  of  Elizabeth,"  "  Lectures  on  the 
English  Poets,"  and  "  Criticisms  on  Art."  These  cover 
a  wide  ground,  and  are  all  more  or  less  distinguished  by 
his  characteristic  merits  and  faults.  They  all  startle  the 
reader  from  the  self-complacency  of  his  opinions,  and 
provoke  him  into  thought. 

Leigh  Hint  is  well  known  as  the  author  of  a  large 
number  of  agreeable  essays,  and  for  his  friendly  connec- 
tions with  many  of  his  eminent  contemporaries.  He 
has  been  more  a  victim  of  criticism  than  a  critic.  It 
has  been  truly  said  of  him  by  Macaulay,  "  that  there  is 
no  man  living  whose  merits  have  been  more  grudgingly 
allowed,  and  whose  faults  have  been  so  cruelly  expiated  " 
In  his  character  there  is  such  a  union  of  pertness  and 
kindliness,  that  he  is  always  open  to  attack.  He  made 
the  public  his  confidant,  poured  into  its  ear  his  little 
frailties  and  fopperies,  expressed  his  opinions  on  all  sub- 
jects with  the  most  artless  self-conceit,  and  at  times 
exhibited  a  kind  of  Richard  Swiveller  order  of  good  feel- 
ing, in  speaking  of  such  men  as  Shelley  and  Byron. 
These  follies,  though  most  of  them  venial,  made  him  a 
continual  butt  for  magazine  scribLers ;  and  the  fine  qual- 
ities of  heart  and  intellect,  which  underlie  his  affect- 
ations, have  not,  until  lately,  been  generally  acknowl- 
edged. He  is,  in  truth,  one  of  the  pleasantest  writers 
of  his  time,  —  easy,  colloquial,  genial,  humane,  full  of 
fine  fancies  and  verbal  niceties,  possessing  a  loving  if 
riot  a  "learned  spirit,"  with  hardly  a  spice  of  bitterne'«» 


i28  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

in  his  composition.  He  is  an  excellent  commtntator  on 
the  minute  beauties  of  poetry.  He  has  little  grasp  ol 
acuteness  of  understanding,  and  his  opinions  are  value- 
less where  those  qualities  should  be  called  into  play; 
but  he  has  a  natural  taste,  which  detects  with  nice 
accuracy  what  is  beautiful,  and  a  power  of  jaunty  expres- 
sion, which  conveys  its  intuitive  decisions  directly  to 
other  minds.  He  surveys  poetry  almost  always  from  a 
luxurious  point  of  view,  and  his  criticism  therefore  is 
merely  a  transcript  of  the  fine  and  warm  sensations  it 
has  awakened  in  himself.  He  is  a  sympathizing  critic 
of  words,  sentences,  and  images,  but  has  little  success  in 
explaining  the  grounds  of  his  instinctive  judgments,  and 
io  feeble  and  jejune  in  generalization.  He  broods  over 
a  dainty  bit  of  fancy  or  feeling,  until  he  overflows  with 
aliection  for  it.  He  dandles  a  poetic  image  on  his  knee 
as  though  it  were  a  child,  pats  it  lovingly  on  the  back, 
and  addresses  to  it  all  manner  of  dainty  phrases;  and, 
consequently,  he  has  much  of  the  baby-talk,  as  well  as 
the  warm  appreciation,  which  comes  from  affection.  This 
billing  and  cooing  is  often  distasteful,  especially  if  it  be 
employed  on  some  passages  which  the  reader  desires  to 
keep  sacred  from  such  handling ;  and  we  cannot  see  him 
approaching  a  poet  like  Shelley  without  a  gesture  of 
impatience ;  but  generally  it  is  far  from  unpleasant. 
His  "Imagination  and  Fancy"  is  a  delightful  book. 
"  The  Indicator  "  and  "  Seer  "  are  filled  with  essays  of 
peculiar  excellence.  Hunt's  faults  of  style  and  thinking 
arc  ingrained,  and  cannot  be  weeded  out  by  criticism ; 
and  to  get  at  what  is  really  valuable  in  his  writings 
considerable  toleration  must  be  exercised  towards  his 
effeminacy  of  manner  and  daintiness  of  sentiment.  That 
with  ail  his  faults,  he  has  a  mind  of  great  delicacy  and 


>wiTisn  CRITICS.  129 

fulness,  a  fluent  fancy,  unrivalled  good-will  to  the  whole 
world,  a  pervading  sweetness  of  feeling,  and  that  he 
occasionally  displays  remarkable  clearness  of  perception, 
must  be  cheerfully  acknowledged  by  every  reader  of  hia 
essays. 

In  these  hurried  remarks  on  some  of  the  essayists  and 
criiics  of  the  time,  we  have  not  noticed  two,  who  are 
well  entitled  to  an  extended  consideration.  We  refer  to 
Thomas  Carlyle  and  John  Stuart  Mill.  The  influence 
of  Carlyle  on  the  whole  tone  of  criticism  at  the  present 
day  has  been  po  verfully  felt.  Mill  is  principally  known 
on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic  by  his  work  on  Logic  ;  but 
he  has  been  for  a  number  of  years  a  writer  for  the  West- 
minster Review,  over  the  signature  of  A,  and  his  articles, 
especially  his  masterly  disquisition  on  Jeremy  Bentham, 
evince  uncommon  solidity,  fairness,  penetration,  and 
reach  of  thought.  These  are  worthy  of  a  more  elabo- 
rate review  than  our  limits  will  now  permit ;  but  we 
trust  at  some  early  period  to  repair  the  deficiency. 

VOL.  u.  9 


RL^FUS   CHOATE.* 

To  give  a  strict  analysis  of  a  mind  so  complex,  van- 
aus,  and  richly  gifted,  as  that  of  Mr.  Choate,  we  feel  to 
be  a  difficult  and  delicate  task.  What  is  peculiar  in  his 
genids  and  character  is  provokingly  elusive ;  and  though 
an  unmistakable  mdividuality  characterizes  all  his  pro- 
ductions as  a  lawyer,  orator,  and  statesman,  it  is  an 
individuality  so  modified  by  the  singular  flexibility  of 
his  intellect,  that  it  can  be  more  easily  felt  than  analyzed. 
We  propose  to  give  a  few  dates  illustrating  his  biogra- 
phy ;  to  allude  to  some  of  his  masterly  expositions  of 
national  policy  as  a  statesman  ;  and  to  touch  slightly 
that  rare  combination  in  his  character  of  the  poet  and 
the  man  of  affairs,  by  which  the  graces  of  fancy  and  the 
energies  of  impassioned  imagination  lend  beauty  and 
power  to  the  operations  of  his  large  and  practical  under- 
standing. 

Mr.  Choate  was  born  in  Ipswich,  Mass.,  on  the  1st 
day  of  October,  1799.  He  entered  Dartmouth  College 
in  1815,  and  was  distinguished  there  for  that  stern  devo- 
tion to  study,  and  that  love  of  classical  literature,  which 
have  accompanied  him  through  all  the  distractions  of 
political  and  professional  life.  Shortly  after  graduating 
he  was  chosen  a  tutor  in  college  ;  but,  selecting  the  law 

*  American  Review,  January,  1847. 


RUFUS    CHOATE.  131 

for  his  profession,  he  entered  the  Law  School  at  Cam- 
bridge, and  afterwards  completed  his  studies  in  the  office 
of  Judge  Cummins,  of  Salem.  He  also  studied  a  year 
in  the  office  of  Mr.  Wirt,  Attorney-General  of  the 
United  States.  He  commenced  the  practice  of  his  pro- 
fession in  the  town  of  Danvers,  in  1824.  But  a  consid- 
erable portion  of  the  period  between  his  first  entry  into 
his  profession  and  his  final  removal  to  Boston,  in  1S34, 
was  passed  in  Salem.  He  early  distinguished  himself 
as  an  advocate.  His  legal  arguments,  replete  with 
knowledge,  conducted  with  admirable  skill,  evincing 
uncommon  felicity  and  power  in  the  analysis  and  appli- 
cation of  evidence,  blazing  with  the  blended  fires  of 
imagination  and  sensibility,  and  delivered  with  a  rapid- 
ity and  animation  of  manner  which  swept  along  the 
minds  of  his  hearers  on  the  torrent  of  his  eloquence, 
made  him  one  of  the  most  successful  advocates  at  the 
Essex  bar.  In  1825,  he  was  elected  a  representative  to 
the  Massachusetts  Legislature;  and  in  1827  he  was  in 
the  Senate.  He  took  a  prominent  part  in  the  debates, 
and  the  energy  and  sagacity  which  he  displayed  gave 
him  a  wide  reputation.  In  1832  he  was  elected  mem- 
ber of  Congress  from  the  Essex  district.  He  declined  a 
reflection,  and  in  1834  removed  to  Boston,  to  devote 
himself  to  his  profession.  He  soon  took  a  position 
among  the  most  eminent  lawyers  at  the  Suffolk  bar, 
and  for  seven  years  his  legal  services  were  in  continual 
request.  In  1841,  on  the  retirement  of  Mr.  Webster 
from  the  Senate,  he  was  elected  to  fill  his  place  by  a 
large  majority  of  the  Massachusetts  Legislature,  —  an 
honor  which  Massachusetts  bestows  on  none  but  men  of 
signal  ability  and  integrity.  Since  Mr.  Choate  resigned 
bis  seat  in  the   Senate,  he  has  been  more  exclusively 


132  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

ievoted  to  his  profession  than  at  any  previous  period  ol 
his  life.  The  only  public  office  he  now  holds  is  that  of 
Regent  of  the  Smithsonian  Institute.  The  country  is 
principal. y  indebted  to  his  efforts  for  the  promising  form 
which  that  institution  has  now  assumed. 

Mr.  Choate's  powers  as  a  statesman  are  to  be  esti- 
mated chiefly  by  his  course  while  a  member  of  the 
United  States  Senate,  especially  by  his  speeches  on  the 
Tariff,  the  Oregon  question,  and  the  Annexation  of 
Texas.  These  appear  to  us  among  the  ablest  which 
were  delivered  during  the  agitation  of  those  inflammable 
questions.  Beneath  an  occasional  wildness  of  style, 
there  can  easily  be  discerned  a  sagacious  and  penetrating 
intellect,  well  trained  in  dialectical  science ;  capable  of 
handling  the  most  intricate  questions  arising  under  the 
law  of  nations  and  constitutional  law;  keen  to  perceive 
the  practical  workings  of  systems  of  national  policy ; 
possessed  of  all  the  knowledge  relating  to  the  topics 
under  discussion  ;  fertile  in  arguments  and  illustrations, 
and  directing  large  stores  of  information  and  eloquence 
to  practical  objects.  In  his  speech,  March  14,  1842,  on 
the  right  and  dxttj  of  Congress  to  continue  the  policy  of 
protecting  American  labor,  he  presents  a  lucid  and 
admirable  argument  to  prove  that  Congress  has  the  con- 
stitutional power  "so  to  provide  for  the  collection  of 
the  necessary  revenues  of  Government  as  to  afford 
reasonable  and  adequate  protection  to  the  whole  labor  of 
the  country,  agricultural,  navigating,  mechanical,  and 
manufacturing,  and  ought  to  afford  that  protection;"  and 
in  the  course  of  the  argument  he  gives  a  review  of  the 
opinions  current  on  the  subject  about  the  period  of  the 
adoption  of  the  Constitution.  This  displays  an  exten 
?ive  acquaintance  with  the  political  history  of  the  time 


ftUFUS    CHOaTE. 


133 


{lie  result  of  oi.ginal  research.  In  this  speech  he  3eclaies 
the  origin  of  the  objection  to  the  protective  policy,  based 
on  the  assumption  of  its  unconstitutionality,  to  have 
arisen  in  "a  subtle  and  sectional  metaphysics;"  and 
adds,  in  a  short  paragraph,  well  worthy  to  be  pondered 
by  all  vA^ho  are  exposed  to  the  fallacies  springing  up  in 
the  hot  contests  of  party,  that  "  it  is  one  of  the  bad  hab- 
its of  politics,  which  grow  up  under  written  systems  and 
limited  systems  of  government,  to  denounce  what  we 
think  impolitic  and  oppressive  legislation  as  unconstitu- 
tional legislation.  The  language  is  at  first  rhetorically 
and  metaphorically  used  ;  excited  feeling,  producing  inac- 
curate thought,  contributes  to  give  it  currency  ;  classes  of 
states  and  parties  inweave  it  into  their  vocabulary,  and 
it  grows  into  an  article  of  faith." 

The  best  and  most  characteristic  of  his  speeches  on 
the  tariff,  however,  is  that  delivered  in  the  Senate  on  the 
12th  and  15th  of  April,  1844.  It  shows  a  most  intimate 
acquaintance  with  the  history  of  our  legislation  on  the 
question ;  the  subject  is  taken  up  in  its  principles  and 
details,  and  exhibited  in  new  lights;  it  glovvs  with  enthu- 
siasm for  the  honor,  glory,  and  advancement,  of  the 
nation ;  and  its  illustrations,  allusions,  and  arguments, 
have  the  raciness  of  individual  peculiarity.  The  philos- 
ophy of  the  manufacturing  system  is  given  with  great 
clearness  in  respect  to  principles,  and  at  the  same  time 
is  presented  to  the  eye  and  heart  in  a  series  of  vivid 
pictures.  The  problem,  he  says,  which  the  lawgiver 
should  propose  to  himself  is  this,  —  "  How  can  I  procure 
that  amount  of  revenue  which  an  economical  administra- 
tion of  government  demands,  in  such  manner  as  most 
impartially  and  most  completely  to  develop  and  fostei 
the   universal    industrial   capacities   of  the  country,  of 


[34  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

whose  ■fast  material  interests  I  am  honored  with  the 
charge  ?  "  We  should  like  to  quote  the  whole  of  that 
passage  in  which  he  enforces  the  importance  of  manu- 
factures, on  the  ground  that  they  give  the  laborer  the 
choice  between  many  occupations,  and  do  not  absolutely 
confine  him  to  one  or  two.  "  In  a  country,"  he  says, 
"  of  few  occupations,  employments  go  down  by  an  arbi- 
trary, hereditary,  coercive  designation,  without  regard  to 
peculiarities  of  individual  character.  But  a  diversified, 
advanced,  and  refined  mechanical  and  manufacturing 
industry,  cooperating  with  those  other  numerous  em- 
ployments of  civilization  which  always  surround  it, 
offers  the  widest  choice,  detects  the  slightest  shade  of 
individuality;  quickens  into  existence  and  trains  to  per- 
fection the  largest  conceivable  amount  and  utmost  possi- 
ble variety  of  national  mind."  He  proceeds  to  illustrate 
this  idea  by  supposing  a  family  of  five  song,  who,  in 
some  communities,  would  all  be  compelled  to  follow  one 
occupation,  as  fishermen,  or  farmers,  or  servants.  He 
then  sketches  the  history  of  four  of  these  sons,  in  a  com- 
munity where  the  diversified  employments  of  civilization 
give  scope  to  the  ruling  passion  of  each.  The  allusion 
to  the  fifth  boy  is  as  honorable  to  the  statesman  as  the 
poet.  "  In  the  flashing  eye,  beneath  the  pale  and  beam- 
ing brow,  of  that  other  one,  you  detect  the  solitary  first 
thoughts  of  genius.  There  are  the  sea-shore  of  storm  or 
calm,  the  waning  moon,  the  stripes  of  summer  evening 
clc.id,  traditions,  and  all  the  food  of  the  soul,  for  him. 
A.i»d  so  all  the  boys  are  provided  for.  Every  fragment 
of  mind  is  gathered  up.  The  hazel-rod,  with  unfailing 
potency,  points  out,  separates,  and  gives  to  sight  every 
^raiu  of  gold  in   the  water  and  in  the  sand.     Everv 


RUFUS    cnOATE. 


135 


taste,  every  faculty,  every  piculiarity  of  mental  powei. 
finds  its  task,  does  it,  and  is  made  the  better  for  it." 

We  should  like  to  refer,  at  some  length,  to  Mr. 
Choate's  speech  on  the  bill  to  provide  further  remedial 
justice  in  the  court?  of  the  United  States,  delivered  in 
the  Senate,  May,  1842.  It  is  one  of  the  most  ingenious, 
learned,  and  vehement  of  his  speeches.  Replete  with 
logical  passion,  rapid,  animated,  high-toned,  it  at  one 
moment  transfixes  an  objection  with  those  radiant  shafts 
which  speed  from-  the  mind  only  in  periods  of  excited 
reasoning,  and  at  another  overthrows  an  antagonist 
proposition  by  a  series  of  those  quick,  trampling  inter- 
roo^tions  by  which  argument  is  gifted  almost  with  mus- 
cular power.  There  is  one  passage,  illustrating  the  idea 
that  the  condition  of  national  existence  is  to  be  under  the 
obligations  of  the  law  of  nations,  from  which  we  quote  a 
characteristic  sentence  or  two  :  "  You  may  cease  to  be  a 
nation  ;  you  may  break  the  golden  unseen  band  of  the 
constellation  in  which  we  move  along,  and  shoot  apart, 
separate,  wandering  stars,  into  the  infinite  abyss ;  you  may 
throw  down  the  radiant  ensign,  and  descend  from  the 
everlasting  and  glittering  summits  of  your  freedom  and 
your  power ;  but  while  you  exist  as  now  you  do,  the  only 
nation  of  our  system  known  to  the  other  nations,  you  are 
under,  you  must  obey,  and  you  may  claim  upon  the  com- 
mon code  of  all  civilized  and  Christian  commonwealths." 
The  closing  passage  of  the  speech  is  even  more  pas- 
sionately imaginative  :  "  The  aspect,"  he  says,  "  which 
our  United  America  turns  upon  foreign  nations,  the 
aspect  which  3ur  constitution  designs  she  shall  turn 
upon  them,  the  guardian  of  our  honor,  the  guardian  of 
our  peace,  is,  after  all,  her  grandest  and  her  fairest 
ft'spect.     We  have  a  right  to  bo  proud  \\  Ven  we  look  op 


136  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

that.  Happy  and  free  empress-mother  of  states  them- 
selves free !  unagitated  by  the  passions,  unmoved  by  the 
dissensions,  of  any  one  of  them,  she  watches  the  rights 
and  fame  of  all ;  and  reposing,  secure  and  serene,  among 
the  mountain  summits  of  her  freedom,  she  holds  in  one 
hand  the  fair  olive-branch  of  peace,  and  in  the  other  the 
thunderbolt  of  reluctant  and  rightful  war.  There  may 
she  sit  forever;  the  stars  of  union  upon  her  brow,  the 
rock  of  independence  beneath  her  feet !  "  This  image 
has  the  splendor  and  energy  of  one  of  Burke's,  with  a 
slight  touch,  perhaps,  of  Mr.  Jefferson  Brick.  The 
shock  it  may  give  to  the  finer  filaments  of  taste  is 
owing  to  the  ridicule  which  has  been  cast  on  the  senti- 
ment of  national  exaggeration,  through  the  nonsense  and 
bombast  of  fifth-rate  declaimers.  In  this  connection  we 
may  as  well  allude  to  Mr.  Choate's  sympathy  with  those 
general  feelings  of  patriotism,  as  they  are  felt,  not  by 
tasteful  students,  but  by  great  bodies  of  people.  Though 
one  of  the  first  classical  scholars  in  New  England,  and 
a  diligent  student  of  the  great  productions  of  English 
genius  and  taste,  he  is  still  exceedingly  open  to  impres- 
sions from  the  common  mind  and  heart,  and  has  none  of 
that  daintiness,  which,  in  the  man  of  letters,  contemptu- 
ously tosses  aside  all  sentiment,  expression,  and  imagery, 
which  the  pharisees  of  scholarship  may  choose  to  con- 
pi'der  vulgar  and  ungenteel.  The  greatest  English 
..•tatesmen  have  always  addressed  these  common  senti- 
ments of  large  classes  of  the  people  —  have  often 
spoken  in  their  speeches  as  Dibdm  wrote  in  his  songs 
—  and  have  been  indebted  for  a  great  deal  of  their 
influence  to  passages  which  wrinkle  with  scorn  the  lips 
9{  elegant  scholars  and  contributors  tCj  the  reviews. 
The  speech  delivered  by  Mr.  Choate  on  March  21 


RUFUS    CHOATE.  137 

1844,  on  the  Oregon  question,  in  reply  to  Mr.  Buchanan, 
is  dotted  all  over  with  splendid  sentences :  the  general 
course  of  the  argument  is  well  sustained  and  happily- 
enforced  ;  and  there  is  a  joyous  spring  in  the  style,  even 
in  its  occasional  inflation,  which  seems  to  indicate  that 
most  of  it  was  delivered  without  any  more  preparation 
than  the  facts  and  arguments  demanded.  It  is  an  ex- 
ceedingly spirited  and  brilliant  speech,  but  has  the 
inequalities  of  merit  common  to  purely  extemporaneous 
productions,  in  which  argument  is  diversified  by  personal 
matters  of  reply  and  retort.  The  tone  of  most  of  the 
speech  is  that  of  excited  conversation,  with  the  exaggera- 
tion, both  of  passion  and  wit,  common  in  colloquial  dis- 
putes. The  invective,  provoked  by  a  remark  that  the 
American  people  cherish  a  feeling  of  deep-rooted  hatred 
to  Great  Britain,  is  perhaps  its  intensest  passage.  "  No, 
sir,"  he  indignantly  observes,  "we  are  above  all  this! 
Let  the  Highland  clansman,  half  naked,  half  civilized, 
half  blinded  by  the  peat-smoke  of  his  cavern,  have  his 
hereditary  enemy  and  his  hereditary  enmity,  and  keep 
the  keen,  deep,  and  precious  hatred,  set  on  fire  of  hell, 
alive  if  he  can  ;  let  the  North  American  Indian  have  his, 
and  hand  it  down  from  father  to  son,  by  Heaven  knows 
what  symbols  of  alligators,  and  rattlesnakes,  and  war- 
clubs  smeared  with  vermilion  and  entwined  with  scarlet ; 
let  such  a  country  as  Poland,  —  cloven  to  the  earth,  the 
armed  heel  on  the  radiant  forehead,  her  body  dead,  her 
soul  incapable  to  die,  —  let  her  remember  the  wrongs  of 
days  long  past ;  let  the  lost  and  wandering  tribes  of 
Israel  remember  theirs  —  the  manliness  and  the  sympa- 
thy of  the  world  may  allow  oi  pardon  this  to  them  :  but 
shall  America,  young,  free,  and  prosperous,  just  setting 
out  on  the  highway  of  heaven,  '  decorating  and  cheering 


138  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

the  elevated  sphere  she  just  begins  to  move  in,  glittering 
like  the  morning  star,  full  of  life  and  joy,' — shall  she 
be  supposed  to  be  polluting  and  corroding  her  noble  and 
happy  heart,  by  moping  over  old  stories  of  stamp-act 
and  tea-tax,  and  the  firing  of  the  Leopard  on  the  Chesa- 
peake, in  time  of  peace?  No,  sir;  no,  sir;  a  thou- 
sand times  no  !  ^  *  *  *  We  are  born  to  happier 
feelings.  We  look  on  England  as  we  look  on  France. 
We  look  on  them  from  our  new  world, —  not  unrenowaied, 
yet  a  new  world  still, — and  the  blood  mounts  to  our 
cheeks,  our  eyes  swim,  our  voices  are  stifled  with  the 
consciousness  of  so  much  glory ;  their  trophies  will  not 
let  us  sleep  :  but  there  is  no  hatred  at  all  —  no  hatred  ; 
all  for  honor,  nothing  for  hate  !  We  have,  we  can  have, 
no  barbarian  memory  of  wrongs,  for  which  brave  men 
have  made  the  last  expiation  to  the  brave." 

We  have  not  by  us  the  great  speech  of  Mr.  Choate  on 
the  Annexation  of  Texas,  but  we  remember  being  im- 
pressed at  the  time  with  its  strength  and  felicity ;  and 
the  position  taken  in  it  regarding  the  consequences  of 
the  measure  have  been  realized  almost  to  the  letter. 
He  was  one  of  the  most  ardent  opponents  of  annexa- 
tion, and  both  in  the  Senate  and  in  addresses  to  the 
people,  made  his  resistance  felt. 

Tn  what  we  have  said  regarding  his  other  speeches,  we 
have  not,  of  course,  done  justice  to  their  merit  as  argu- 
ments, or  stated  the  wide  variety  of  topics  and  principles 
they  discuss.  We  have  merely,  in  our  quotations,  given 
prominence  to  a  few  sentences  which  illustrate  the  essen 
•■ial  solidity  and  correctness  of  his  views  of  national  pol 
iCy,  amid  all  the  exaggeration  and  ornament  of  thei. 
expression.  It  is  one  of  his  peculiarities,  and  a  very 
striking  one,  that  he  combines  a  conservative  intellect 


RUFUS    CHOATE.  139 

nth  a  radical  /sensibility ;  and  those  irregular  impulses 
)f  fancy  and  passion,  which  usually  push  men  into  the 
adoption  of  reckless,  desperate,  and  destructive  princi- 
ples of  legislation,  he  employs  in  the  service  of  the  calm- 
est, most  comprehensive,  and  most  practical  political 
'visdom,  rooted  deep  in  reason  and  experience.  His 
ire  seems  to  be  of  that  kind  which  sweeps,  in  a  devour- 
ing flame,  to  blast  and  desolate  what  is  established  and 
accredited;  but  it  really  is  that  heat,  which  infuses 
energy  and  breathing  life  into  maxims  and  principles, 
which  are  in  danger  of  becoming  ineffective,  from  their 
usual  disconnection  with  the  sensibility  and  imagination. 
He  is  a  kind  of  Mirabeau-Peel. 

In  what  we  have  now  to  say  in  regard  to  Mr.  Choate's 
mind  and  character,  we  shall  have  to  consider  him  chiefly 
as  a  lawyer  and  advocate,  and  only  incidentally  as  a 
statesman.  His  greatest  triumphs  have  been  at  the  bar  ; 
and  to  unfold  from  any  central  principle  the  character  of 
that  genius  by  which  he  often  works  such  wonders  —  tr> 
give  anything  like  the  philosophy  of  his  influence  — 
is  a  task  full  of  difficulty.  We  desire  to  present  a  por- 
trait which  shall  suggest  to  the  reader  the  character  and 
qualities  of  the  man,  but  we  feel  able  to  do  it  but  imper- 
fectly. 

Mr.  Choate's  mind  is  eminently  large,  acute,  flexible, 
vigorous,  versatile,  enriched  with  the  most  various  ac- 
quirements, and  displaying  in  its  exercise  a  rare  union 
of  understanding  and  mnagination,  shrewdness  and  sen- 
sibility, tact  and  fire.  He  is  one  of  the  most  sagacious 
as  well  as  one  of  the  most  brill  ictnt  and  impassioned,  of 
Drators.  An  unwearied  fire  seems  to  burn  in  the  very 
centre  of  his  nature,  penetrating  every  faculty,  flaming 
out  in  almost  every  expression ,    yet  his  iatelle:t  pre- 


140  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

serves  its  clearness  of  view,  amid  his  most  fervent  dec- 
lamation, and  he  is  never  himself  whirled  along  in  that 
rush  of  passion  which  hurries  away  the  minds  of  all 
who  come  within  its  influence.  With  the  keenest  sen- 
sitiveness to  impressions,  he  is  distinguished  as  much  for 
his  power  of  self-control  as  his  power  of  self-excitation  , 
and  his  emotions,  like  well-trained  troops,  "  are  impet- 
uous by  rule."  In  this  singular  combination  of  qualities 
the  puzzle  of  his  character  seems  to  lie  ;  and  it  brings  us 
at  once  to  the  prominent  characteristic  of  his  mind  — his 
swift  sympathy  with  any  given  events  and  persons,  by 
force  of  imagination.  Facts  and  principles  are  not  with 
him  abstract  data  for  an  abstract  conclusion;  but  he 
instinctively  grasps  them  in  the  concrete,  and  realizes 
them  to  his  own  mind  as  living  things.  The  most  care- 
less glance  at  his  productions  will  reveal  this  tendency 
of  his  intellect  to  the  most  superficial  reader.  Whatever 
may  be  the  subject  or  object  of  his  speech,  he  endows  it 
with  personal  life.  Thus  he  speaks  of  the  system  of 
American  manufactures  as  a  "  refined,  complicated,  sen- 
sitive industry."  He  ever  impersonates  the  country,  and 
sections  of  the  country,  whenever  he  alludes  to  them. 
They  appear  always  to  rise  up  to  his  mind  as  personal 
existences.  Thus,  New  York,  with  him,  is  not  simply  a 
city  distinguished  for  commercial  energy,  but  a  city 
which  "  with  one  hand  grasps  the  golden  harvests  of  the 
West,  and  with  the  other,  like  Venice,  espouses  the  ever- 
lasting sea."  Again  he  observes,  that  after  we  came  out 
of  the  war  of  1S12,  "  the  baptism  of  fire  and  blood  was 
on  our  brow,  and  its  influence  on  our  spirit  and  legisla- 
tion." 

The  most  inanimate  things  start  into  life  beneath  hi? 
touch.     We  recollect  that  he  once  objected  to  the  recep 


RUFUS    CHOATE.  141 

Jion  of  an  illiterate  constable's  return  of  service,  bristling 
all  over  with  the  word  having,  on  the  ground  that  it  was 
bad.  The  judge  remarked  that  though  inelegant  and 
ungranimatical  in  its  structure,  the  paper  still  seemed  to 
be  good  in  a  legal  sense.  "  It  may  be  so,  your  honor," 
replied  Mr.  Choate,  "  but  it  must  be  confessed  he  has 
greatly  overworked  the  participle,"  —  a  humorous  imag- 
ination worthy  of  old  Dr.  Fuller.  Again,  in  referring  to 
the  misgovernment  and  weakness  of  the  Confederation, 
he  remarked  that,  "  when  at  last  the  Constitution  was 
given  to  the  longing  sight  of  the  people,  they  threw  them- 
selves upon  it  like  a  famished  host  on  miraculous  bread." 
But,  perhaps,  the  finest  specimens  of  his  imaginative 
power  are  those  little  minor  touches,  which  are  occasion- 
ally inserted  in  the  throng  and  impatient  pressure  of  his 
fanciful  illustrations,  and  to  a  critical  eye  are  more  pleas- 
ing than  his  most  splendid  and  flaring  images.  They 
evince  that  an  acuteness  and  intense  clearness  of  mind 
ever  accompanies,  if  it  be  not  the  result  of,  his  most  vehe- 
ment excitement.  This  is  an  important  point  of  separa- 
tion between  the  orator  and  the  mere  declaimer. 

From  this  power  of  intense  conception  comes  the 
force  of  Mr.  Choate's  eloquence,  and  also  its  seeming 
exaggeration.  A  vivid  insight  into  one  particular  fact  o' 
truth,  and  a  statement  of  it  in  corresponding  warmth  o 
language,  practically  draws  it  out  of  its  natural  relations, 
and  converts  the  less  into  the  greater  reason.  This  is 
the  advantage  which  the  great  advocate  holds  over  the 
merely  learned  and  logical  lawyer.  He  can  make  the 
little  have  the  effect  of  the  great  by  his  power  of  im- 
pressing it  upon  the  mind ;  and  it  requires  a  correspond- 
ing intensity  of  conception  on  the  part  of  his  opponent, 
to  restor.e    the    intrinsically  more   important  f?.ct  to  its 


142  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

rightful  precedence.  Force  in  the  orator  often  conipt.* 
sates  for  deficiencies  in  the  evidence.  When  this  fort 'J, 
this  power  of  giving  prominence  to  facts  and  principi'is 
which  are  really  of  secondary  importance,  is  wielded  ry 
one  who  controls  the  restless  faculties  of  imaginati'-n 
and  sensibility  by  which  it  is  performed,  the  effect  is 
proportionably  increased.  The  dramatic  poet  is  all  i\e 
more  powerful  in  delineating  character,  when  he  intensely 
sympathizes  with  the  passions  he  creates,  without  beitAg 
blinded  and  borne  away  on  their  impetuous  flood.  A 
prominent  characteristic  of  genius,  says  John  Foster, 
"  is  the  power  of  lighting  its  own  fire." 

The  object  of  Mr.  Choate,  in  the  discussion  of  a  qut.s- 
tion,  and  the  object  of  every  great  orator,  is  not  primi- 
rily  to  convince  the  intellect  or  please  the  fancy,  but  to 
influence  the  will.  He  attempts  to  storm  the  citade!  of 
the  mind.  His  arguments,  consequently,  do  not  address 
the  understanding  alone,  nor  his  passion  the  sensilnlity 
alone,  but  fact,  argument,  fancy,  and  passion,  are  fMsed 
tof^ether  in  one  glowing  mass,  and  boldly  directed  at  the 
very  springs  of  action  and  volition.  Though,  for  the 
purposes  of  classification,  we  speak  of  the  mind  as  a  col- 
lection of  sentiments  and  faculties,  we  should  never  for- 
get that  it  is  still  not  an  aggregation  but  a  unit,  and 
that  its  unity  is  its  leading  and  vital  characteristic,  amids! 
all  the  variety  of  its  manifestation.  Though  this  fact  is 
commonly  overlooked  by  the  logician,  the  great  reasoner, 
no  less  than  the  great  orator,  keeps  it  constantly  in  view, 
when  his  object  is  to  produce  a  practical  eflfect  upon  the 
will  of  his  audience.  There  is  little  force  in  abstract 
principles,  but  immense  power  in  living  ideas.  It  is  the 
commonest  of  truisms  that  men  do  not  necessarily  act 
from  the  barren  commonplaces  to  which  their  understand- 


KUFUS    CHOATE. 


143 


ings  may  yield  assent.  Many  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  most 
peaceable  subjects  were  Roman  Catholics,  who  believed 
they  would  be  justified  in  being  her  assassins.  Many 
of  the  bishops  who  assisted  in  driving  James  the  Second 
from  his  throne  were  champions  of  the  divine  right  ot 
kings,  and  believers  in  the  doctrine  of  non-resistance  to 
their  authority.  The  orator,  therefore,  instinctively 
appreciating  the  difTerence  between  notions  which  are 
civilly  assented  to  by  the  intellect,  and  operative  ideas 
which  produce  corresponding  action,  addresses  the  whole 
nature  of  his  audience,  and  moves  as  well  as  convinces. 
Mr.Choate  possesses  this  power  in  a  large  measure  ;  and 
it  is  especially  seen  in  his  legal  arguments. 

This  fiery  and  fusing  imagination  lies  at  the  centre  ol 
his  flexible  nature,  and  constitutes,  in  fact,  the  real  char- 
acteristic of  his  eloquence,  and  is  the  chief  source  of  his 
power.  But  the  most  obvious  characteristic  of  his  mind 
is  fancy ;  and  certainly  it  is  one  of  exhaustless  opulence 
and  almost  unbounded  range.  For  every  idea,  event,  or 
action,  which  comes  into  his  mind,  he  has  a  fancy  to  sug- 
gest something  which  bears  to  it  a  seeming  likeness.  His 
analogical  power,  indeed,  both  of  understanding  and  fan- 
cy, is  immense,  and  it  is  difficult  in  the  rush  of  his  elo- 
quence always  to  distinguish  real  from  apparent  analogies, 
—  analogies  in  the  nature  of  things,  from  analogies  in 
the  appearances  of  things.  The  latter  class  are  profusely 
scattered  over  his  various  speeches,  and  lend  to  his  style 
a  character  of  gorgeous,  but  often  ungraceful  ornament. 
His  productions  should  be  viewed  with  reference  to  the 
fact  that  they  were  intended  to  be  spoken,  and  spoken 
by  the  orator  himself.  To  a  200I  taste,  the  printed  ora- 
tions, disconnected  from  the  excitement  under  which 
they  were  delivered,  and  the  purpose  they  were  intended 


144  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

to  serve,  would  seem  occasionally  turgid  in  style  and 
meretricious  in  metaphor.  Even  in  this  respect,  how- 
ever, his  ornament  is  not  of  that  kind  which  makes  the 
speeches  of  Counsellor  Phillips  a  continual  shock  to 
taste,  nor  that  style  of  elaborated  frenzy  and  careful  taw- 
driness  which  stiffens  the  diction  of  Sheridan's  speeches  ; 
but  there  is  behind  all  a  force  and  fire  hurrying  the  mind 
onwards,  and  never  allowing  it  to  stop  for  criticism.  His 
most  exaggerated  images  seem  forced  from  him  in  mo- 
ments of  excitement,  and  are  all  infused  with  the  life  of 
the  occasion.  His  eloquence,  fierce,  rapid,  and  bold,  con- 
scious of  power,  and  feeling  a  kind  of  wild  delight  in  its 
exercise,  dares  everything,  forces  the  minds  of  the  hear- 
ers into  appropriate  moods,  and  at  times  accomplishes  its 
object  by  main  strength.  He  fires  the  whole  mass  of  his  , 
facts,  arguments  and  images,  until  they  blaze,  and  the 
grotesque  flashes  of  flame  which  sometimes  impatiently 
dart  from  the  main  body  are  hardly  noticed  as  incon- 
gruous. It  would  be  easy  to  adduce  specimens  of  his 
fierce  and  exaggerated  fancies  —  comparisons  clutched  in 
moments  of  raised  passion,  and  made  to  harmonize  with 
the  thought  or  feeling  of  the  moment.  In  an  argument 
before  a  Committee  of  the  Massachusetts  Legislature,  on 
the  petition  for  a  new  railroad  from  Salem  to  Boston,  he 
drew  a  very  vivid  picture  of  the  different  towns  the  pres- 
ent road  did  not  pass  through,  and  referred  especially  to 
Danvers,  which  is  only  two  or  three  miles  from  Salem. 
"  Her  people,"  he  said,  "were  just  near  enough  to  hear 
the  whistle  of  the  locomotive,  and  gaze  at  the  sparks  of 
that  flying  giant;  yet,  for  all  practical  purposes,  they 
might  as  well  stand  under  the  sky  at  midnight,  gazing 
It  di  firmament  of  falling  meteors.^'' 

Mr.  Choate's  fancy  usually  accompanies,  and  some- 


RUFUS    CHOATh. 


145 


times  almost  blends  with,  the  exercise  of  his  imagina. 
tion  ;  but  it  is  still  to  be  distinguished  from  its  nobler 
companion.  By  imagination  he  apparently  exaggerates 
a  thing  through  the  intensity  which  he  conceives  it ;  by 
fancy,  ae  really  magnifies  it  by  comparison  with  larger 
objects.  From  the  manner  in  which  these  two  powers 
of  his  mind  play  into  each  other's  processes,  and  also 
from  his  frequent  practice  of  overtopping  an  imagination 
niith  a  fanciful  decoration,  the  charge  of  exaggeration 
against  his  eloquence  has  its  foundation.  The  phrase 
"  clothed  upon,"  which  is  often  applied  to  the  operations 
of  imagination,  is  more  properly  applicable  to  those  of 
fancy;  and  in  Mr.  Choate's  productions,  the  shining 
garment  of  comparison,  which  he  has  placed  upon  his 
vital  thought,  may  easily  be  disconnected  from  it,  and 
leave  the  original  idea,  grasped  and  modified  by  imag- 
ination, in  its  own  intense  and  living  beauty.  Even  if 
the  fancy,  as  is  sometimes  the  case  with  him,  grows  out 
of  the  imagination,  it  can  be  severed  from  it  without 
striking  at  the  life  of  its  parent,  —  as  we  can  lop  the  lux- 
uriant foliage  from  a  tree  without  injuring  its  root  and 
trunk.  The  truth  is,  that,  in  respect  to  ornament,  fancy 
is  more  effective  than  imagination,  because  it  is  more 
readily  apprehended  ;  and  Mr.  Choate's  real  poetic 
power  has  generally  suffered  most  from  the  praises  of 
such  as  have  been  captivated  by  his  swollen  comparisons 
ar.:^  .faring  illustrations. 

Mr.  Choate  has  a  peculiar  kind  of  mirth  in  his  com- 
position, and  also  that  readiness  which  commonly  accom- 
panies ludicrous  perception ;  but  his  wit  is  rather  witty 
fancy,  and  his  humor,  humorous  imagination.  He  has 
1  kind  of  playful  sympathy  with  the  ludicrous  side  of 
things,  and  is  often  exceedingly  felicitous  in  its  expres- 

VOL.    11.  10 


146  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

sion.  Such  is  his  grotesque  image,  in  his  speech  on  the 
Oregon  question,  of  the  Legislature  putting  its  head  out 
of  the  window,  and,  in  a  voice  audible  all  over  the  world, 
speaking  to  the  negotiators  of  the  impending  treaty,  bid 
ding  them  God-speed,  but  insinuating  that  if  ihey  did 
not  give  up  the  whole  subject  in  dispute,  it  would  be 
settled  by  main  strength.  But  perhaps  his  best  passage 
in  this  way  is  his  picture  of  a  New  England  summer, 
introduced  in  his  second  speech  on  the  tariff,  to  illus- 
trate the  idea  tliat  irregularity  is  not  ruin. 

"  Take  the  New  England  climate  in  summer ;  you  would 
think  the  world  was  coming  to  an  end.  Certain  recent  heresies 
on  that  subject  may  have  had  a  natural  origin  there.  Cold  to- 
day ;  hot  to-morrow ;  mercury  at  80^  in  the  morning,  with 
wind  at  south-west ;  and  in  three  hours  more  a  sea-turn,  wind 
at  east,  a  thick  fog  from  the  very  bottom  of  the  ocean,  and  a 
fall  of  forty  degrees  of  Fahrenheit ;  now  so  dry  as  to  kill  all  the 
beans  in  New  Hampshire  ;  then  floods  carrying  off  the  bridges 
of  the  Penobscot  and  Connecticut ;  snow  in  Portsmouth,  in 
/uly ;  and  the  next  day  a  man  and  a  yoke  of  oxen  killed  by 
ightning  in  Rhode  Island.  You  would  think  the  world  was 
twenty  times  coming  to  an  end  !  But  I  don't  know  how  it  is : 
we  go  along ;  the  early  and  the  latter  rain  falls,  each  in  its 
season ;  seed-time  and  har'^est  do  not  fail ;  the  sixty  days  of 
hot  corn  weather  are  prett  /  sure  to  be  measured  out  to  us. 
The  Indian  Summer,  with  its  bland  south-west,  and  mitigated 
sunshine,  brings  all  up  ;  and  on  the  twenty-fi.t\h  of  November, 
or  thereabouts,  being  Thursday,  three  millions  of  grateful  peo- 
ple, in  meeting-houses,  or  around  the  family  board,  give  thanks 
for  a  year  of  health,  plenty,  and  happiness." 

The  reader  of  Mr.  Choate's  speeches  will  readily  call 
to  mind  many  sentences  in  which  the  serious  and  the 
ludicrous  shake  hands  as  cordially,  and  with  as  little 
detriment  to  each  other,  as  in  the  nreceding  extract. 


RUFUS    CHOATE.  14? 

Ti'.iis  pe^uliur  sportiveness,  which  Mr.  Choate  can 
Domrnaiid  at  pleasure,  is  an  element  in  the  general  im- 
pression conveyed  by  his  genius,  and  it  makes  the 
character  complete.  Will,  understanding,  imagination, 
passion,  fancy,  humor,  subtlety  in  the  perception  of 
distinctions,  subtlety  in  the  perception  of  resemblances, 
sympathy  with  the  ideal,  and  sympathy  with  the  famil- 
iar;  these,  both  in  their  separate  exercise,  and  their 
subtle  interpenetration,  are  resources  which  he  com- 
mands and  blends  at  will.  In  this  play  and  interchange 
of  imagmation  and  humor,  in  this  union  of  the'  high 
with  the  common,  there  is  established  in  his  mind  a 
kind  of  fellowship  with  the  things  he  describes  and 
the  persons  he  addresses.  Through  this  he  contrives,  in 
his  legal  arguments,  to  lift  the  familiar  into  the  ideal, 
by  the  strength  of  his  conception  of  both ;  and  when  his 
materials  are  at  all  tractable,  he  can  achieve  the  task 
without  suggesting  the  ludicrous.  When  they  are  not, 
he  does  it  by  pure  force  and  determination.  He  dis- 
cerns, instinctively,  the  unconscious  poetry  in  characters 
and  actions  which  are  prosaic  to  the  common  eye ;  and 
he.  does  not,  perhaps,  so  often  superadd  as  evolve.  His 
arguments  have  often  the  artistical  effect  of  a  romantic 
poem,  even  when  they  are  most  firmly  based  on  law  and 
evidence.  His  client  is  the  hero  of  the  narrative ;  and 
spectators,  if  not  juries,  always  desire  that  the  hero  of 
Mr.  Choate's  epic  argument  may  not  come  to  an  end 
"  by  edge  of  penny  cord  and  vile  reproach."  The  im 
mense  fertility  of  his  mind,  in  possibilities  and  plausibil- 
ities, enables  him  to  account  for  every  action  on  other 
principles  than  those  whirh  are  obvious;  and  the  warm 
blood  never  glows  and  rushes  through  his  sentences  with 
nore   intensity  than  when  he  is  giving  to  the  secondary 


I4b  EoSavs  and  reviews. 

the  proniiivence  and  life  of  the  primitive.  There  is  a 
constant  appeal,  in  his  arguments,  tr  generous  senti- 
ment,—  an  implied  assumption  that  men  will  always 
act  honestly  and  without  prejudice,  —  that  a  jury  will 
as  heartily  pronounce  in  favor  of  his  client,  as  the  reader 
of  a  romance  in  favor  of  persecuted  virtue.  And,  for  the 
time,  the  orator  himself  is  earnest  and  sincere.  By  force 
of  sympathy,  he  has  identified  himself  with  his  client, 
and  realized  everything  to  his  own  mind.  He  pleads  as 
if  his  own  character  or  life  was  at  stake.  Ideas,  suppo- 
sitions, possibilities,  drawn  into  his  own  imagination,  are 
vitalized  into  realities,  and  he  sees  them  as  living  things, 
—  sees  them  as  Dante  saw  Farinata  rise  from  his  glow- 
ing tomb,  —  as  Shakspeare  saw  Cordelia  bending  over 
Lear.  And  while  thus  giving  breathing  life  to  charac- 
ters and  events,  he  does  not  overlook  a  single  particle  of 
evidence,  or  neglect  to  urge  a  single  point  of  law,  which 
bears  upon  the  case.  Indeed,  a  legal  argument,  as  con- 
ceived and  delivered  by  Mr.  Choate,  has  the  merit  of 
combining  an  influence  upon  the  will  and  understanding, 
with  an  artistical  effect  upon  the  imagination.  He 
makes  no  parade  of  logic;  the  skeleton  is  not  always 
forcing  itself  through  the  flesh,  as  in  the  arguments  of 
aien  of  dryer  brains  and  less  skill;  yet  he  ranges  his 
/:asc  with  consummate  art  around  its  great  leading 
points,  to  which  he  binds,  in  the  strictest  sequence,  and 
with  a  masterly  power  of  concentration,  every  fact  and 
every  argument.  His  fancy  leads  him  into  no  illogiccil 
discursic^ns,  but  plays  like  heat-lightning  along  the  lines 
of  his  argument,  while  his  imagination,  interpenetrating 
and  working  with  his  logic,  at  once  condenses  and 
sreates. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  his  arguments  cannot  he 


RUFUS    CHOAlii.  149 

reported.  In  a  newspaper,  they  have  the  effect  of 
'  champagne  in  decanters,  or  Herodotus  ir  Beloe's 
version." 

It  would  be  impossible  to  convey  an  idea  of  this  power 
of  Mr.  Choate  by  single  passages,  as  it  is  something 
which  animates,  unites,  and  vivifies  the  whole  argument. 
It  is  imagination,  not  a  series  of  imaginations,  which 
produces  the  result.  Sentences  cut  apart  from  the  main 
body  of  one  of  his  productions  can  only  suggest  his 
manner  through  the  process  of  caricature.  Thus,  we 
Tecollect  that  an  honest  master-mason,  in  one  of  his 
arguments,  rose  to  the  dignity  of  "  a  builder  and  beauti- 
fier  of  cities."  In  another,  he  represented  the  skipper  of 
a  merchant  vessel,  who  had  been  prosecuted  by  his  crew 
for  not  giving  them  enough  to  eat,  as  being  busily 
studying  some  law-book,  while  passing  the  island  of  St. 
Helena,  to  find  out  his  duty  in  case  the  vessel  was  short 
pf  provisions.  "Such,"  said  Mr.  Choate,  "were  his 
meditations,  as  the  invisible  currents  of  the  ocean  bore 
him  by  the  grave  of  Napoleon."  A  witness  once  testi- 
fied, in  reference  to  one  of  his  clients,  that  he  had  called 
upon  him  on  Friday  evening,  found  him  crying,  and,  on 
asking  him  what  was  the  matter,  received  in  answer,  — 
"  I  'm  afraid  I  've  run  against  a  snag."  This  was  ren- 
dered by  Mr.  Choate  somewhat  in  this  way  :  —  "  Such 
were  his  feelings,  and  such  his  actions,  down  to  that 
fatal  Friday  night,  when  at  ten  o'clock,  in  that  flood  of 
tears,  his  hope  went  out  like  a  candle." 

These  instances  convey  an  idea  of  the  process  by 
which  Mr.  Choate  makes  "  strange  combinations  out  of 
common  things,"  but  a  little  more  accurate  than  an  in- 
tentional parody  of  his  manner. 

The  style  of  Mr.  Choate  is  the  style  of  an  orator,  not 


150  ESSAYS   AND    REVIEWS 

of  an  author.  It  will  hardly  bear  a  nutmte  criticism 
founded  on  general  principles  of  taste,  but  must  be 
judged  with  reference  to  the  character  of  the  speaker  and 
the  object  of  his  speech.  The  tone  of  his  diction  is 
pitched  on  too  high  a  key  for  written  composition.  The 
same  splendid  oration  which  thrilled  a  popular  assembly, 
or  influenced  the  verdict  of  a  jury,  would  lose  a  very 
important  portion  of  its  charm  when  subjected  to  the 
calm,  cold  judgment  of  the  reader.  Besides,  it  must  be 
admitted  that  Mr.  Choate's  immense  wealth  of  language, 
and  opulence  of  fancy,  urge  him  into  redundance  of  ex- 
pression, and  sometimes  overload  his  style  with  shining 
words.  This  is  principally  seen  in  his  use  of  adjectives. 
He  will  pour  out  in  one  breath  five  or  six  of  them,  some- 
times because  he  has  not  time  to  choose  the  most  express- 
ive one,  sometimes  from  the  desire  to  point  out  all  the 
qualities  of  the  thing  defined.  It  has  been  said  of  him, 
that  he  "  drives  a  substantive  and  six."  He  is  often  ex- 
ceedingly felicitous  in  this  accumulation  of  epithets,  and 
really  condenses  where  he  seems  to  expand.  Thus  he 
once  spoke  of  the  Greek  mind,  as  "  subtle,  mysterious, 
plastic,  apprehensive,  comprehensive,  available  "  —  a 
page  of  disquisition  in  one  short  sentence.  But  com- 
monly, we  think,  it  tends  to  weaken  his  diction,  espec- 
ially when  it  is  disconnected  from  his  peculiar  manner 
of  speaking.  It  is  the  vice  of  a  fertile  intellect,  always 
in  haste,  and  rusting  to  its  own  wealth  to  supply  at  the 
moment  the  words  which  are  wanted.  Perhaps  this 
peculiarity  has  been  unconsciously  caught  from  a  study 
of  the  later  writings  of  Burke,  especially  those  on  the 
French  Revolution.  Burke  often  "  drives  a  substantive 
and  six,"  but  he  has  his  reins  upon  them  all,  and  each 
performs  a  service  to  which  all  the  others  would  be  ir 


UFTJS    C HO  ATE.  151 

adequate.  His  epithets  do  not  clog  his  style,  howevev 
they  may  modify  the  rapidity  of  its  movement.  They 
are  selected  by  his  mind;  Mr.  Choate's  seem  to  occur  /■» 
his  mind. 

We  cannot  conclude  these  hurried  observations  on 
some  of  the  characteristics  of  Mr.  Choate,  without  ex- 
pressing the  hope  that  his  large,  fertile,  and  available 
intellect,  so  rich  in  experience  and  scholarship,  may  be 
directed,  at  some  period,  to  the  production  of  a  work,  in 
which  his  genius  and  acquirements  may  be  fairly  ex- 
pressed. Everything  which  he  has  performed,  heretofore, 
has  been  done  on  the  spur  of  the  occasion,  and  to  serve 
some  particular  object  connected  with  his  party  or  his 
profession.  He  is  capable  of  producing  a  work  which 
will  give  his  name  that  literary  prominence  to  which  his 
great  powers  seem  to  point.  In  the  prime  of  life,  and  in 
the  vigor  of  his  genius,  having  achieved  early  the  high- 
est political  and  professional  objects  of  a  manly  ambition, 
we  trust  that  his  splendid  intellect  will  not  pass  away 
without  leaving  behind  something  which  shall  embody 
its  energies,  and  reflect  honor  upon  the  literature  oi  his 
touutry. 


PRESCOTT'S  HISTORIES.* 

The  publication  of  Mr.  Prescott's  "  Peru  "  affords  us 
an  opportunity  for  which  we  have  long  waited,  to  attempt 
an  estimate  of  his  powers  as  a  historian,  and  to  give 
some  account  of  his  works.  To  him  belongs  the  rare 
distinction  of  uniting  solid  merit  with  extensive  popular- 
ity. He  has  been  exalted  to  the  first  class  of  historians, 
both  by  the  popular  voice  and  the  suffrages  of  the  learned. 
By  avoiding  all  tricks  of  flippancy  or  profundity  to  court 
any  class  of  readers,  he  has  pleased  all.  His  last  history 
is  devoured  with  as  much  avidity  as  the  last  novel ; 
while,  at  the  same  time,  it  occupies  the  first  place  in  the 
pages  of  the  reviews.  His  fame,  also,  is  not  merely 
local,  or  even  national.  It  is  as  great  at  London,  Paris, 
and  Berlin,  as  at  Boston  or  New  York.  His  works  have 
been  translated  into  Spanish,  German,  French,  and 
Italian  ;  and  into  whatever  region  they  have  penetrated 
they  have  met  a  cordial  Avelcome,  and  done  much  to 
raise  the  character  of  American  letters  and  scholarship. 
In  England  his  success  has  probably  been  beyond  that 
of  ?ny  other  American  author.  The  tone  cf  the  English 
press  towards  our  publications  has  too  often  been  either 
patronizing  or  insolent.  But  Mr.  Prescott's  histories 
have  been  spared  both  the  impertinence  of  condescension 
a,nd  the  impertinence  of  abuse,  and  judged  according  to 
their  intrinsic  merits.     The  best  evidence,  perliaps,  of 

*  Methodist  (Quarterly  Review,  Januari    184S 


prescott's  histories.  153 

lis  transatlantic  reputation  is  to  be  found  in  his  member- 
ship of  numerous  literary  associations  abroad.  We  per- 
ceive that  since  the  publication  of  The  Conquest  of 
Peru,  he  has  been  chosen  a  member  of  the  Royal  Soci- 
ety of  Literature,  and  also  of  the  Society  of  Antiquaries. 
The  last  honor  he  shares  with  but  one  other  American. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  a  reputation  so  extensive 
could  only  result  from  sterling  excellences.  Some  of 
Mr.  Prescott's  popularity  may,  doubtless,  be  attributed 
to  the  peculiar  disadvantages  under  which  he  has  pros- 
ecuted his  historical  researches.  That  a  man  nearly 
blind  should  collect  a  large  mass  of  rare  chronicles  and 
MSS.,  and  attempt  the  composition  of  histories  requiring 
the  utmost  industry,  sagacity,  and  toil,  is  of  itself  suffi- 
cient to  awaken  attention,  and  almost  to  confer  fame. 
But  Mr.  Prescott's  works  require  no  apology  founded  on 
the  obstacles  he  has  surmounted.  They  can  stand  the 
tests  we  apply  to  similar  compositions  without  any  call 
upon  the  charity  of  reader  or  reviewer.  Indeed,  though 
the  historian  cannot  dispense  with  the  use  of  his  eyes 
without  being  subjected  to  numberless  annoyances  vvhich 
might  well  discourage  the  most  patient  and  energetic  of 
men,  the  value  of  his  history  must  come,  after  all,  from  his 
own  mind  and  character.  It  is  not  the  channel  through 
which  facts  and  authorities  pass  into  the  head,  'tut  the 
shape  in  which  they  come  out  of  the  head,  which  is  of 
the  most  importance.  The  real  difficulties  which  Mr. 
Prescott  has  surmounted  are  intellectual,  and  inherent 
in  his  subjects  and  materials.  These  difficulties  can 
hardly  be  appreciated  by  a  superficial  reader  of  his  his- 
tories. They  are  not  perceived  until  we  consider  out  of 
<vhat  obstinate  materials  he  has  drawn  his  consistent 
wiimated.    and  picturesque   narrative,   and  reflect   upon 


.54  ESSA\S    AND    REVIEWS 

that  peculiar  combination  of  qualities  by  which  he  hat 
been  enabled  to  perform  it  with  such  splendid  siiccess. 

The  distinguishing  merit  of  Mr.  Prescott  is  his  powei 
of  vividly  representing  cliaracters  and  events  in  their  just 
relations,  and  applying  to  them  their  proper  principles.  He 
thus  presents  a  true  exhibition  of  the  period  of  time  he 
has  chosen  for  his  subject,  enabling  the  reader  to  com- 
prehend its  peculiar  character,  to  realize  its  passions  and 
prejudices,  and  at  once  to  observe  it  with  the  eye  of  a 
contemporary,  and  judge  it  with  the  calmness  of  a  philos- 
opher. To  succeed  in  this  difficult  object  of  historical 
art,  requires  not  only  mental  powers  of  a  high  order,  but 
a  general  healthiness  of  moral  and  intellectual  consti- 
tution, which  is  uncommon,  even  among  historians  who 
evince  no  lack  of  forcible  thought  and  intense  conception. 
History  is  false,  not  only  when  the  historian  wilfully  lies, 
but  also  when  facts,  true  in  themselves,  are  forced  out 
of  their  proper  relations  through  the  unconscious  opera- 
tion of  the  historian's  feelings,  prejudices,  or  modes  of 
thought.  He  thus  represents,  not  his  subject,  but  his 
subject  as  modified  by  his  own  character.  Certain  facts 
and  persons  are  exaggerated  into  undue  importance, 
while  others  are  unduly  depressed,  in  order  that  they 
may  more  readily  fall  within  the  range  of  his  general- 
izations, or  harmonize  with  his  preconceived  opinions. 
He  may  have  a  system  so  fixed  in  his  mind,  or  a  passion 
so  lodged  in  his  heart,  as  to  see  facts  in  relation  to  it, 
instead  of  seeing  them  in  relation  to  each  other.  An 
honest  sectarian  or  partisan,  an  admirable  moralist  or 
philanthropist,  might  make  his  history'  a  tissue  of  fallacies 
and  falsehoods,  without  being  justly  chargeable  with 
intentional  untruth.  This  is  done  by  confounding  indi- 
vidual impressions  with  objective  facts  and  principles. 


prescott's  histories.  155 

Now,  Mr.  Prescott's  narrative  of  events  and  delineations 
of  character  are  characterized  by  singular  objectiveness. 
By  a  fine  felicity  of  his  nature,  he  is  content  to  consider 
his  subject  as  everything,  and  himself  as  nothing.  Ob- 
jects stand  out  on  his  page  in  clear  light,  undiscolored 
by  the  hues  of  his  own  passions,  unmixed  with  any  pecu- 
liarities of  his  own  character.  This  disposition  and 
power  to  see  things  as  they  are  in^hemselves,  when 
joined  to  a  corresponding  capacity  to  convey  them  to 
other  minds  in  their  true  proportions,  indicates  a  finely 
balanced  as  well  as  largely  endowed  nature,  and  implies 
moral  as  well  as  intellectual  strength.  The  moral  qual- 
ities evinced  in  Mr.  Prescott's  histories,  though  they  are 
seen  in  no  ostentation  of  conscience  and  parade  of  noble 
sentiments,  are  still  of  a  fine  and  rare  order,  and  consti- 
tute no  inconsiderable  portion  of  his  excellence  as  a  his- 
torian. These  are  modesty,  conscientiousness,  candor, 
toleration,  —  a  hatred  of  wrong,  modified  by  charity  for 
the  wrong-doer,  —  a  love  of  truth,  expressed  not  in  re- 
sounding commonplaces,  but  in  diligence  in  seeking  it 
out,  —  and  a  comprehension  of  heart  which  noiselessly 
embraces  all  degrees  of  the  human  family,  just  and  mer- 
ciful to  all,  looking  at  motives  as  well  as  actions,  and 
finding  its  fit  expression  in  a  certain  inde^.eribable  sweet- 
ness of  tone  pervading  his  style  like  an  invisible  essence. 
It  is  one  of  the  greatest  charnns  of  his  compositions,  that 
these  qualities  are  so  unostentatiously  displayed  that 
the}  can  be  best  described  in  negatives.  Thus  we  speak 
of  his  absence  of  egotism,  of  intolerance,  of  narrowness, 
of  rancor,  of  exaggeration,  rather  than  of  the  positive 
qualities  through  which  such  faults  are  avoided. 

The  intellectual   power  displayed  in  Mr.  Prescott's 
works  has  a  similar  character  of  unobtrusiveness  and 


156  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS, 

reserve.  It  would,  doubtless,  appear  to  many  readers 
»nuch  greater  were  it  asserted  With  more  emphasis,  and 
occasionally  allowed  to  disport  itself  in  the  snapping 
contrasts  of  antithesis,  or  the  cunning  contortions  of  dis- 
putation. A  writer  may  easily  gain  the  reputation  of  a 
strong  and  striking  thinker,  by  sacrificing  artistical  effect 
to  momentary  surprises,  or  by  exliibiting  his  thoughts  in 
their  making,  before  they  have  attained  precision  and 
viefiniteness,  and  taken  their  place  in  the  general  plan  of 
his  work.  To  the  generality  of  readers,  depth  of  thought 
is  confounded  with  confusion  of  thoughts.  Events  and 
ideas,  heaped  and  huddled  together,  and  lit  up  here  and 
there  with  flashes  of  wit  and  imagination,  are  often 
received  in  their  chaotic  state  as  indications  of  greater 
mental  power  than  they  would  be  if  reduced  to  order 
and  connection  by  the  stringent  exercise  of  a  patient, 
penetrating,  and  comprehensive  intellect.  Now,  pure 
force  of  understanding  is  principally  shown  in  so  grap- 
pling with  the  subject  as  to  educe  simplicity  from  com- 
plexity, and  order  from  confusion.  According  to  the 
perfection  with  which  this  is  done  will  be  the  apparent 
ease  of  the  achievement;  and  a  thinker  who  follows  this 
method  rarely  parades  its  processes.  His  mind,  like  that 
of  Mr.  Prescott,  operates  to  the  reader  softly  and  without 
noise.  Any  strain  or  contortion  in  thought  or  expression 
would  indicate  imperfect  comprehension  of  his  subject, 
and  exhibit  the  pains  of  labor  instead  of  its  results.  Far 
from  desiring  to  tickle  attention  by  giving  undue  prom- 
inence to  iingle  thoughts  or  incidents,  such  a  thinker 
would  be  chiefly  solicitous  to  keep  them  in  subjection  tc 
his  general  purpose ;  for  it  is  violating  the  first  principle 
vt  art  to  break  up  the  unity  of  a  subject  into  a  series  o. 
Rxaggerated  individual  parts. 


prescott's  histories.  157 

The  moment  we  consider  the  materials  \i'hich  form 
the  foundation  of  Mr.  Prescott's  elaborate  histories,  we 
perceive  the  high  degree  of  intellect  they  imply  in  the 
writer,  and  are  able  to  estimate  that  healthiness  of  mind 
by  which  he  shunned  the  numerous  temptations  to  brd- 
liant  faults  which  beset  his  path.  In  the  collection  of 
these  materials  he  has  displayed  all  the  industry  and 
diligence  of  an  antiquary.  With  the  utmost  indifference 
to  labor  and  expense,  he  has  gathered  from  every  quarter 
all  books  and  MSS.  which  could  elucidate  or  illustrate 
his  subjects,  and  nothing  which  could  cast  the  minutest 
thread  of  light  into  any  unexplored  corner  of  history 
seems  to  have  escaped  his  terrible  vigilance.  With  all 
his  taste  for  large  views,  which  comprehend  years  in 
sentences,  the  most  mole-eyed  analyst  has  not  a  keener 
sight  for  the  small  curiosities  of  history.  No  chronicle 
or  personal  history,  happy  in  the  consciousness  of  its 
insignificance,  can  hide  itself  from  his  quick  eye,  if  it 
chance  to  contain  a  single  fact  which  he  needs.  He 
has  shown  more  industry  and  acuteness  than  almost  any 
other  contemporary  resurrectionist  in  the  grave-yards  of 
deceased  books.  Yet  he  has  not  one  of  the  faults  which 
cling  so  obstinately  to  most  antiquaries.  He  does  not 
estimate  the  importance  of  a  fact  or  date  by  the  trouble 
he  experienced  in  hunting  it  out.  He  does  not  plume 
himsef  on  the  acquisition  of  what  has  baffled  others. 
None  of  the  dust  of  antiquity  creeps  into  his  soul.  His 
style  glides  along  with  the  same  unassuming  ease  in 
tl  e  narration  of  discoveries  as  of  common  facts. 

Indeed,  it  is  not  so  much  in  the  collection  as  in  the  ure 
of  his  materials  that  Mr.  Prescott  claims  our  regard  as  a 
historical  artist.  These  materials  are,  it  is  true,  original 
«nd  valuable  beyond  any  which  have  fallen  into  the  hands 


I58  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

of  any  contemporary  historian;  but  to  analyze  them,  and 
to  compose  accurate  histories  from  their  conflicting  state- 
ments, required  judgment  in  its  most  comprehensive 
sense.  They  are  the  productions  of  men  who  looked  at 
persons  and  events  from  different  points  of  view.  They 
are  vitiated  with  the  worst  faults  of  bad  historians.  They 
all  reflect  their  age  in  its  common  passions  and  preju- 
dices, and  each  is  disfigured  by  some  unconscious  or  wil- 
ful misrepresentations,  springing  from  personal  bias  or 
imperfect  comprehension.  They  are  full  of  credulity  and 
b'gotry,  of  individual  and  national  prejudices,  —  some- 
times the  mere  vehicles  of  private  malice,  almost  always 
characterized  by  a  bad  arrangement  of  facts  and  contu- 
sion of  principles.  Together  they  present  so  strange  a 
medley  of  shrewdness  and  fanaticism,  of  fact  and  fiction, 
and  throw  over  the  subject  they  are  intended  to  illus- 
trate such  a  variety  of  cross  lights,  and  entangle  it  in 
such  perplexing  contradictions,  that  to  sift  out  the  truth 
requires  the  most  cautious  consideration  and  comparison 
of  authorities.  The  testimony  of  kings,  statesmen,  schol- 
ars, priests,  soldiers,  philanthropists,  each  inaccurate  after 
a  fashion  of  his  own,  Mr.  Prescott  was  compelled  to 
e'stimate  at  its  exact  worth,  disregarding  all  the  exag- 
gerations of  pride,  interest,  and  sensibility.  To  do  this, 
he  was  necessarily  obliged  to  study  the  personal  history 
of  his  authorities,  to  examine  the  construction  of  their 
minds,  and  to  consider  all  inducements  to  false  coloring 
which  would  result  from  their  position  and  character. 
Those  who  have  carefully  read  the  critical  notes  of  his 
authorities,  subjoined  to  each  division  of  his  histories, 
must  admit  that  Mr.  Prescott  has  shown  himself  abun- 
dantly capable  of  performing  this  difficult  and  delicate 
♦ask.     He  analyzes  the  mental  and  moral  constitution  of 


PRESCOTT'S    HISTORIES.  159 

D3S  veterans  with  singular  acuteness,  laying  open  to  the 
eye  their  subtlest  excellences  and  defects,  and  snow  ing  in 
every  sentence  that  in  receiving  their  statements  of  facts, 
he  has  allowed  much  for  the  medium  through  which  they 
have  passed.  This  portion  of  his  duty,  as  a  historian, 
demanded  a  judgment  as  nice  in  its  tact  as  it  was  broad 
in  its  grasp.  The  scales  must  have  been  large  enough 
to  take  in  the  weightiest  masses  of  details,  and  perfect 
enough  to  show  the  slightest  variation  of  the  balance. 

Mr.  Prescott's  understanding  is  thus  judicial  in  its 
character,  uniting  to  a  love  for  truth  diligence  in  its 
search  and  judgment  in  its  detection.  But  this  does  not 
comprehend  all  his  merits  as  a  historian  r/  the  past; 
and,  indeed,  might  be  compatible  with  an  absence  of  life 
in  his  narrative,  and  vitality  in  his  conceptions.  Among 
those  historians  who  combine  rectitude  of  purpose  with 
strength  of  understanding,  Mr.  Hallam  stands  preeminent. 
All  his  histories  have  a  judicial  character.  He  is  almost 
unexcelled  in  sifting  testimony,  in  detecting  inaccuracies, 
in  reducing  swollen  reputations  to  their  proper  dimen- 
sions, in  placing  facts  and  principles  in  their  natural 
order.  He  has  no  prepossessions,  no  preferences,  no 
prejudices,  no  theories.  He  passes  over  a  tract  of  his- 
tory sacred  to  partisan  fraud  and  theological  rancor, 
where  every  event  and  character  is  considered  in  relation 
to  some  system  still  acrimoniously  debated,  without 
adopting  any  of  the  passions  with  which  he  comes  in 
contact.  No  sophistical  apology  for  convenient  c'lme, 
no  hypocrite  or  oppressor  pranked  :ut  in  the  cciors  of 
religion  or  loyalty,  can  deceive  his  cold,  calm,  austere, 
remorseless  intellect.  He  sums  up  each  case  which  comes 
before  him  for  judgment  with  a  surly  impartiality,  apply- 
ing to  external  events  or  acts  two  or  three   rig-id  rules, 


160  ESSAYS    AN.     REVIEWS. 

and  then  fixing  on  them  the  brand  of  his  conden:r\atioii. 
The  shrieks  of  their  partisans  he  (i3ems  the  most  flatter- 
ing tribute  to  the  justice  of  his  judgment.    This  method 
of  writing  history  has,  doubtless,  its  advantages ;   and, 
in  regard  to  Mr.  Hallam,it  must  be  admitted  that  he  has 
corrected  many  pernicious  errors  of  fact,  and  overthrown 
many  absurd  estimates  of  character.     But,  valuable  as 
his  histories  are  in  many  important  respects,  they  gener 
ally  want  grace,   lightness,   sympathy,   picturesqueness, 
glow.     From  his  deficiency  of  sensibility  and  imagina- 
tion, and  from  his  habit  of  bringing  everything  to  the 
tribunal  of  the  understanding,  he  rarely  grasps  character 
or  incidents  in  the  concrete.     Both  are  interesting  to  him 
only  as  they  illustrate  certain  practical  or  abstract  prin- 
ciples.    He  looks  at  external  acts  without  being  able  to 
discern  inward  motives.     He  cannot  see  things  with  the 
same  eyes,  and  from  the  same  position,  as  did  the  persons 
whom  he  judges  ;'  and,  consequently,  all  those  extenua- 
tions and  explanations  of  conduct  which  are  revealed  m 
an  insight  into  character  are  of  little  account  with  him. 
He  does  not  realize  a  past  age  to  his  irmagination,  and 
will  not  come  down  from  his  pinnacle  of  judgment  to 
mingle  with   its   living  realities.     As  he  coldly  dissects 
some  statesman,  warrior,  or  patriot,  who   at  least  had  a 
living  heart  and  brain,  we  are  inclined  to  exclaim  with 
Hamlet,  "  Has  this  fellow  no  feeling  of  his  business  ?  " 
It  is  the  same  in  his  literary  criticisms.     He   gives  the 
truth  as  it  is  about  the  author,  not  as  it  is  in  the  author. 
He  describes  his  genius  in  general  terms,  not  in  charac- 
teristic epithets.     Everything  that  is  peculiar  to  a  partic- 
ular writer  slips  through  his  analysis.     That  mysterious 
'nterpenetration  of  personality  with  f(;elings  and  poweis 
which    distinguishes  one    man's   genius  from  another's 


prescott's  histories.  161 

escapes  the  pn^cesses  of  his  understanding.  Persons,  in 
JVIr.  Hallam's  hands,  commonly  subside  into  general  ideas, 
events  into  generalizations.  He  does  not  appear  to  think 
tl.at  persons  and  events  have  any  value  in  themselves, 
apart  from  the  principles  they  illustrate  ;  and,  conse- 
quently, he  conceives  neither  with  sufficient  intensity  to 
bring  out  always  the  principles  they  really  contain. 

We  have  already  .said  that  this  mode  of  writing  his- 
tory has  its  advantages,  but  it  is  still  so  over-informed 
with  understanding  as  to  sink  representation  in  reflection. 
Now,  the  historian  should  address  the  eye  and  heart,  as 
well  as  the  understanding,  to  enable  the  reader  really  to 
understand  his  work.  Mr.  Prescott  possesses  the  quali- 
ties by  which  this  object  is  attained,  and  he  possesses 
them  in  fine  harmony  with  the  qualities  of  his  under- 
standing. He  has  a  quick  sensibility,  and  a  high  degree 
of  historical  imagination  —  an  imagination  which,  though 
it  cannot  create  character  and  events  which  never  existed. 
can  still  conceive  facts  in  the  concrete,  and  represent 
them  instinct  with  their  peculiar  life.  In  studying  a  past 
age,  he  is  not  conte.n  with  appending  to  a  rigid  digest  of 
facts  certain  appropriate  reflections,  but  he  brings  the  age 
up  to  his  mind  in  its  characteristic  form,  costume,  and  social 
condition.  He,  in  a  manner,  sees  and  feels  its  peculiar 
life,  and  comprehends,  with  his  heart,  as  well  as  his 
head,  the  influences  which  shaped  character,  and  sup- 
plied motives  and  palliations  of  conduct.  He  distin- 
guishes between  crimes  which  result  from  wickedness  of 
heart  and  crimes  w^hich  result  from  accredited  error,  and 
discerns  those  intricate  operations  of  the  mind  by  which 
superstition  hallows  vices  into  virtues,  and  prejudice 
obliquely  justifies  inhumanity  and  persecution.  By  con 
ceiv'.ng  character,  also,  as  a  whole,  his  page  is  filled  wi  ;h 

VOL.  II.  11 


»62  ESSAYS    AND   REVIEWS. 

men  instead  of  monstrosities.  He  sees  that  the  progress 
of  opinion  has  stamped  with  reprobation  many  practices 
which  were  once  commanded  by  conventional  morality 
and  perverted  religion ;  and  he  discriminates  between 
evil  performed  from  a  false  idea  of  duty,  and  evil  per- 
formed from  selfish  passion.  At  the  same  time,  he 
understands  all  those  unconscious  hypocrisies  of  selfish- 
ness by  which  vice  and  error  are  gradually  sanctified  to 
the  conscience  and  ennobled  to  the  imagination.  He 
comprehends,  likewise,  that  apparent  anomaly  in  human 
nature,  the  commission  of  great  crimes  by  persons  who 
are  not  destitute  of  elevated  sentiment  and  disinterested 
action  ;  and  in  the  delineation  of  men  whose  lives  pre- 
sent a  strange  medley  of  folly  and  wisdom,  virtue  and 
wickedness,  he  presents  complete  and  consistent  portraits, 
recognized  at  once  as  harmonizing  with  the  principles  of 
our  common  nature.  History,  as  often  written,  is  false 
in  the  impressions  it  conveys,  from  an  absence  of  this 
vitality,  vividness,  and  picturesqueness.  We  do  not  per- 
ceive the  connection  between  past  and  present  events  ; 
and  do  not  meet  the  actors  in  them  on  the  common 
ground  of  humanity.  Mr.  Prescott  always  recognizes 
one  nature  in  the  different  personages  of  history,  however 
strange  may  be  the  combination  of  its  elements,  however 
novel  the  circumstances  among  which  it  is  placed. 

Connected  with  this  power  of  pictorial  representation 
and  imaginative  insight,  he  pos^iesses  a  large  share  of 
sensibility ;  and  from  the  combination  of  these  arises,  in 
a  great  degree,  the  peculiar  charm  and  interest  of  his 
histories.  By  the  readiness  with  which  he  himself  sym- 
pathizes vialh  his  incidents  and  characters,  he  awakens 
the  sympathies  of  the  reader,  and  bears  him  willingly 
along  the  stream  of  narrative.     Take,  for  iistanee  the 


prescott's  histories.  16j 

histories  of  the  conquest  of  Mexico  and  Peru.  Almosr 
everything  seems  presented  directly  to  the  imagination 
—  the  physical  characteristics  of  the  countries,  the  char- 
acter and  varying  fortunes  of  the  conquerors  and  their 
motley  followers,  the  manners,  customs,  government, 
religion,  of  the  conquered  race.  With  exquisite  artistical 
effect,  our  sympathies  are  made  to  gather  round  each  in 
its  turn,  and  to  realize  each  in  its  peculiar  form  of  life 
Scenery,  persons,  and  events,  are  thus  fixed  in  the  imag- 
ination in  their  proper  relations,  and  together  make  up  a 
comprehensive  whole,  the  contemplation  of  which  exer- 
cises almost  every  faculty  and  feeling  of  the  mind.  The 
same  thing  presented  simply  to  the  understanding, 
divested  of  its  coloring  and  characterization,  would  cer- 
tainly lose  as  much  in  instruction  as  attractiveness.  Mr. 
Prescott  understands  wdiat  has  made  historical  novels  so 
much  more  readable  than  histories,  and  he  has  succeeded 
in  making  history  as  fascinating  as  romance.  In  accom- 
plishing this,  it  was  not  necessary  that  he  should  intro- 
duce anything  fictitious.  The  nearer  his  narrative 
approached  the  truth  of  the  matter,  the  more  complete 
would  be  the  interest  it  would  awaken.  But  he  had  the 
sagacity  to  perceive  that  a  mere  detail  of  events  however 
remarkable,  and  a  mere  estimate  of  persons  however 
eminent,  did  not  constitute  history  until  they  had  been 
informed  again  with  their  original  life. 

In  perforniing  this  difficult  task,  Mr,  Prescott  has 
avoided  another  fault,  scarcely  less  injurious  than  its 
opposite  extreme  ;  we  mean  the  fault  of  producing  con- 
fusion of  objects  by  the  intensity  with  which  each  is 
conceived  and  expressed.  Michelet,  a  man  of  splendid 
talents  and  accomplishments,  is  an  illustration  of  this 
brilliant  defect.     His  histories  are  as  intense  as  Childe 


164  ESSA'/S    AND    REVIEWS. 

Harold  or  Manfred.  He  writes,  as  old  John  Dennis 
would  say,  in  a  perfect  "  fury  and  pride  of  soul."  He 
conceives  character  and  events  with  such  vividness  as  to 
adopt  the  passions  of  the  age  he  describes,  blending  them 
with  his  own  life,  and  making  their  expression  a  matter 
of  personal  concern.  He  is  whirled  away  by  the  spirits 
he  has  evoked.  "  Thierry,"  he  once  remarked,  "  called 
history  narration ;  and  M.  Guizot,  analysis.  I  have 
named  it  resurrection,  and  it  will  retain  the  name." 
This  remark  conveys  a  fair  impression  of  his  historical 
method.  He  wakes  from  the  sleep  of  ages  kings,  states- 
men, warriors,  and  priests,  and  they  start  up  into  con- 
vulsive life.  Each  individual  object  glares  upon  the 
reader  with  eyes  of  fire,  distracting  his  attention  from 
relations.  The  historian  is  not  upon  an  eminence  sur- 
veying the  whole  field,  but  amid  the  noise  and  dust  of 
the  melee.  There  are  in  his  histories  detached  sentences 
of  extraordinary  depth,  single  impersonations  of  wonder- 
ful grandeur,  but  the  calm  and  comprehensive  judgment, 
unfolding  events  and  characters  in  their  true  connection, 
is  generally  wanting.  Much  of  his  finest  narrative  is 
disfigured  by  bursts  of  declamation  which  would  be 
deemed  extravagant  in  a  political  meeting,  with  driz- 
zles of  mysticism  which  would  puzzle  a  transcendental- 
ist.  He  has  whole  chapters  which  display  a  strange 
combination  of  qualities,  made  up  of  Lord  Byron,  Jacob 
Behmen,  and  Mr.  Jefferson  Brick.  Mr.  Prescott,  per- 
haps, has  nothing  in  his  histories  equal  to  Michelet's 
delineations  of  Joan  of  Arc,  Charles  of  Burgundy,  Han- 
nibal, or  Caesar.  But  if  he  is  not  so  vivid  and  powerful 
in  detached  parts,  he  excels  him  in  the  unity  and  propor- 
tion of  his  whole  matter,  and  the  sustained  life  and 
nterest  of  his  narrative.     The  healthy  combination  and 


prescott's  histories.  165 

balance  of  powers  in  Mr.  Prescott's  mind  are  more 
valuable  to  him,  as  an  accurate  historian,  than  would 
be  the  impassioned  imagination  of  Michelet,  or  the 
judicial  understanding  of  Mr.  Hallam. 

The  style  of  Mr.  Prescott's  works,  as  might  be  ex- 
pected from  his  character,  is  manly,  perspicuous,  pictur- 
esque, lucid,  equally  removed  from  stateliness  and  levit;y, 
disdaining  all  tawdry'  ornaments  and  simulated  energy, 
and  combining  clearness  and  simplicity  with  glow.  In 
the  composition  of  a  long  work,  it  is  a  delicate  matter  to 
fix  upon  a  proper  form.  The  style  which  would  delight 
in  an  essay  might  grow  intolerably  tedious  in  a  volume. 
When  brilliancy  or  dignity,  intensity  or  melody,  become 
monotonous,  they  tire  nearly  as  much  as  dulness  or  dis- 
cord. The  only  safe  style  for  a  long  history  is  one  with- 
out peculiarities  which  call  attention  to  itself,  apart  from 
what  it  conveys.  It  must  be  sufficiently  elevated  to  be 
on  a  level  with  the  matter,  or  its  meagre  simplicity  and 
plainness  would  distract  attention  as  much  as  luxuriant 
ornament,  while  it  must  vigorously  resist  all  temptations 
to  display  for  the  mere  sake  of  display.  Mr.  Prescott 
has  been  compared  with  Eobertson  in  respect  to  style. 
The  comparison  holds  as  far  as  regards  luminous  arrange- 
ment of  matter  and  clearness  of  narration  ;  but,  with  the 
exception,  perhaps,  of  passages  in  "  America,"  not  in  the 
graces  of  expression.  The  manner  of  Robertson  is  a  fair 
representation  of  his  patient,  passionless,  elegant  mind. 
Its  simplicity  is  often  too  prim,  its  elegance  too  nice.  The 
smooth-rubbed  mind  of  the  Scotchman  risks  nothing;  is 
fearful  of  natural  graces,  fearful  of  English  verbal  crit- 
icism, fearful  of  violating  the  dignity  of  histoiy.  His 
diction  loses  sweetness  and  raciness  in  its  effort  after  cor- 
rectness, and,  as  a  general  thing,  is  colorless,  charactei^ 


J6b  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

less,  without  glow  or  pictorial  effect.  The  water  is  clear 
and  mirrors  facts  in  beautiful  distinctness,  but  it  neither 
sparkles  nor  flows.  His  diction,  however,  has  the  rare 
quality  of  never  being  tedious,  and  fixes  the  pleased 
attention  of  the  reader  when  the  labored  splendor  of 
Gibbon  would  fatigue  from  its  monotony.  Mr.  Prescott 
has  the  characteristic  merits  of  Robertson,  with  otlier 
merits  superadded.  His  style  is  flowing,  plastic,  all 
alive  with  the  life  of  his  mind.  It  varies  with  the 
objects  it  describes,  and  is  cautious  or  vehement,  concise 
or  luxuriant,  plain  or  pictorial,  as  the  occasion  demands. 
It  glides  from  object  to  object  with  unforced  ease,  passing 
from  discussion  to  description,  from  the  council-chamber 
to  the  battle-field,  without  any  preliminary  flourishes, 
without  any  break  in  that  unity  which  declares  it  the 
natural  action  of  one  mind  readily  accommodating  itself 
to  events  as  they  rise.  Such  a  style  is  to  be  judged  not 
from  the  sparkle  or  splendor  of  separate  sentences  or 
paragraphs,  but  from  its  effect  as  a  whole.  A  person  can 
only  appreciate  it  by  following  its  windings  through  a 
long  work.  Of  course,  we  speak  of  Mr.  Prescott's  style, 
in  this  connection,  in  its  general  character,  after  his 
powers  of  composition  had  been  well  trained  by  exercise. 
The  diction  of  the  earlier  chapters  of  "  Ferdinand  and 
Isabella  "  displays  an  effort  after  elegance,  and  an  occa- 
sional timidity  of  movement,  natural  to  a  man  who  had 
not  learned  to  dare,  and  mistook  elegant  composition  for 
a  living  style.  He  soon  worked  himself  free  from  such 
shackles,  and  left  off  ^vriting  sentences.  With  the  ex- 
ceptions we  have  mentioned,  there  is  no  fine  writing  — 
no  writing  for  the  sake  of  words  instead  of  things  —  in 
Mr.  Prescott's  works.  His  mind  is  too  large  and  healthy 
or  such  vanities.     Perhaps  the  perfection  of  his  style,  ic 


prescott's  histories  IGT 

ts  flowing  iuovement,  is  seon  in  The  Conquest  of  Peru. 
There  are  passages  in  that  which  seem  to  have  run  out 
of  his  mind,  clear  as  rills  of  rock  water.  They  are  like 
beautiful  improvisations,  where  passions  and  objects  so 
fill  the  mind  that  the  words  in  which  they  are  expressed 
are  at  once  perfect  and  unpremeditated. 

We  have  thus  attempted  to  pass  beneath  the  surface 
of  Mr.  Prescott's  works,  to  show  out  of  what  combina- 
tion of  elements,  moral  and  intellectual,  they  have  taken 
their  present  form.  It  is  only  in  this  way  that  we  can 
estimate  the  amount  of  industry,  candor,  intellect,  and 
command  of  expression,  he  brought  to  bear  upon  his 
difficult  labors.  The  analysis  would  have  been  easier 
had  his  mind  presented  more  positive  points,  or  his  works 
displayed  more  stubborn  individual  traits.  The  different 
powers  of  his  mind  so  interpenetrate  each  other,  that  the 
critic  is  puzzled  to  hit  the  right  point  W-hich  exhibits  their 
relative  size  and  strength.  It  is  needlebs  to  say  that 
intellects  like  that  of  Mr.  Prescott  are  often  underrated, 
from  the  very  harmony  of  their  proportions.  It  is  only 
by  going  carefully  over  their  processes  that  we  appre- 
ciate their  results. 

Mr.  Prescott's  first  work  was  the  History  of  the  Reign 
of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella.  It  was  the  labor  of  ten  years, 
and  of  ten  years  well  spent.  He  was  as  fortunate  in  the 
selection  of  his  subject  as  in  its  treatment.  It  was  in 
this  reign  that  the  Spanish  monarchy  may  be  said  to 
have  been  organized,  and  the  Spanish  character  perma- 
nently formed.  Yet,  either  from  the  paucity  of  mate- 
rials, or  from  an  under-estimate  of  its  importance,  Euro- 
pean writers  left  to  an  American  the  honor  of  nrs't 
wTitmg  a  classic  history  of  the  period.  Two  inconsider- 
able compilations,  one  in  French  oy  Mignot,  the  other 


iCkj  ESSAYS    AND    KEVIEWb. 

n  German  by  Becker,  were  the  only  records  of  an 
attempt  to  grapple  with  the  subject  as  a  whole.  At  the 
:ime  Mr.  Prescott  selected  it,  the  materials  for  its  proper 
treatment  were  more  numerous  and  available  than  at 
any  preceding  period.  The  researches  of  Llorente, 
Marina,  Sempere,  Capmany,  Conde,  Navarette,  and 
Clemenain,  had  cleared  up  the  darkness  which  previ- 
ously enveloped  some  of  the  most  important  and  inter- 
esting features  of  the  subject.  Through  friends  abroad 
and  at  home,  he  was  able  to  collect  almost  everything, 
both  in  a  printed  and  MS.  form,  which  could  illustrate 
the  period,  comprehending  chronicles,  memoirs,  private 
correspondence,  legal  codes,  and  official  documents. 
Then  occurred  an  untoward  circumstance,  which  cannot 
be  better  related  than  in  his  own  words :  — 

"  Soon  after  my  arrangements  were  made,  early  in  1826,  for 
obtaining  the  necessary  materials  from  Madrid,  I  was  deprived 
of  the  use  of  my  eyes  for  all  purposes  of  reading  and  writing, 
and  had  no  prospect  of  again  recovering  it.  This  was  a  serious 
obstacle  to  the  prosecution  of  a  work,  requiring  the  perusal  of  a 
large  mass  of  authorities  in  various  languages,  the  contents  of 
w^hich  were  to  be  carefully  collated  and  transferred  to  my  own 
pages,  veritied  by  minute  reference.  Thus  shut  out  from  one 
sense,  I  was  driven  to  rely  exclusively  on  another,  and  to  make 
the  ear  do  the  work  of  the  eye.  With  the  assistance  of  a  reader, 
uninitiated,  it  may  be  added,  in  any  modern  language  but  his 
own,  I  worked  my  way  through  several  venerable  Castilian  quar- 
tos, until  I  was  satisfied  of  the  practicability  of  the  undcrtak- 
iig.  I  next  procured  the  services  of  one  more  competent  to  aid 
me  in  pursuing  my  historical  inquiries.  The  process  was  slow 
and  irksome  enough,  doubtless,  to  both  parties,  at  least  till  my 
ear  was  accommodated  to  foreign  sounds,  and  an  antiquated, 
oitentimes  barbarous  phraseology,  when  my  progress  was  more 
sensible,  and  I  was  cheered  with  the  prospect  of  success.  If 
eertainlv  would  have  been  a  far  more  serious  misfortune  to  tw 


prej.oott's  histories  169 

led  vhus  blindfold  through  the  pleasant  paths  of  literature  ;  but 
my  track  stretched  for  the  most  part  across  dreary  wastes, 
where  no  beauty  lurlced  to  arrest  the  traveller's  eye  and  charm 
his  senses.  After  persevering  in  this  course  for  some  years, 
my  eyes,  by  the  blessing  of  Providence,  recovered  sufficient 
strength  to  allow  me  to  use  them  with  tolerable  freedom  in  the 
prosecution  of  my  labors,  and  in  the  revision  of  all  previously 
written." 

The  range  of  Mr.  Prescott's  subject  was  extensive,  and 
its  different  portions  had  to  be  taken  up  in  their  order, 
and  their  relative  importance  and  influence  rigidly  pre- 
served. In  a  long  and  labored  Introduction,  embodying 
a  large  ainount  of  thought  and  research,  he  gives  a  view 
of  the  Castilian  monarchy  before  the  fifteenth  century, 
and  a  review  of  the  constitution  of  Aragon  to  the  middle 
of  the  same  period.  This  comprehends  a  luminous  sur- 
vey of  all  those  manners,  customs,  and  institutions, 
which  represent  national  life  and  character;  and  it 
places  the  readers  at  once  among  the  people  of  Spain  as 
they  were  in  the  fifteenth  century.  His  history,  then, 
naturally  divides  itself  into  two  parts ;  the  period  when 
the  different  kingdoms  of  Spain  were  first  united  under 
one  monarchy,  and  a  thorough  reform  introduced  into 
their  internal  administration,  and  the  period  when,  the 
interior  organization  of  the  monarchy  having  been  com- 
pleted, the  nation  entered  on  its  schemes  of  discovery 
and  conquest.  The  first  part  illustrates  the  domestic 
policy  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  and  the  second  their 
foreign  policy.  Both  are  filled  with  great  events  and 
striking  personages.  In  the  first  we  have  a  detail  of 
those  measures  by  which  two  kingdoms,  distracted  bji 
civil  feuds  or  foreign  wars,  and  seemingly  without  even 
the  elements   of  national   greatness   and    power,   werr 


170  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

united,  reformed,  and  enabled  to  act  with  such  effect 
abr.iad  as  fventually  to  threaten  the  liberties  of  Europe, 
Tliis  part  covers  all  those  events  in  Castile  and  Aragon 
which  preceded  the  marriage  of  Isabella  with  Ferdinand : 
the  war  with  Portugal  which  followed ;  the  measures  by 
which  the  overgrown  privileges  and  possessions  of  the 
noliles  were  reduced,  the  laws  rigidly  enforced,  and  the 
powers  and  revenues  of  the  crown  increased;  the  estab- 
lishment of  the  modern  Inquisition  ;  the  war  of  Granada, 
and  the  addition  of  that  kingdom  to  the  Castilian  pos- 
'jessions,  after  a  desperate  struggle  of  ten  years;  the 
application  of  Columbus  to  the  Spanish  court,  and  his 
first  and  second  voyages ;  the  expulsion  of  the  Jews ; 
and  a  general  view  of  Castilian  literature. 

I'he  second  part,  which  is  about  half  of  the  whole 
work,  opens  with  a  masterly  view  of  the  affairs  of 
Europe  at  the  close  of  the  fifteenth  century,  and  the  first 
invasion  of  Italy  by  Charles  VIII.  of  France.  This  we 
think  unexcelled  for  that  clearness  of  statement  by  which 
the  most  complex  relations  of  states  are  rendered  intelli- 
gible to  the  least  informed  reader.  The  narrative  of  the 
Italian  wars  then  follows,  and  the  steps  are  minutely 
traced  by  which  the  policy  of  Ferdinand,  and  the  valor 
and  ability  of  Gonsalvo  de  Cordova,  eventually  suc- 
:ev/ded  in  expelling  the  French  from  Naples,  and  adding 
that  kingdom  to  Spain,  The  rise  of  Cardinal  Ximenes, 
his  ecclesiastical  reforms,  the  terrible  zeal  with  which  he 
persecuted  the  conquered  Moors  of  Granada  into  insur- 
rection, and  the  wonderful  conversions  he  effected  by  the 
logic  of  fire  and  sword ;  the  third  and  fourth  voyages  of 
Colu'Tibus,  and  the  general  character  of  the  colonial 
policy  of  Spain  ;  the  death  of  Isabella  ;  the  dissensions 
of  Ferdinand  with  Philip,  his  son-in-law,  ^'-ith  regard  tc 


PRESCOTT  S    HISTORIES.  .Ill 

the  regency  of  Castile ;  the  reign  and  death  of  Philips 
and  regency  of  Ferdinand ;  the  conquests  of  Ximenes  in 
Africa,  and  his  foundation  of  the  University  of  Alcala ; 
the  wars  and  politics  of  Italy,  arising  from  the  League 
of  Cambray ;  the  conquest  of  Navarre,  by  which  the 
only  remaining  independent  kingdom  in  Spain  wa& 
blended  with  the  Spanish  monarchy;  the  death  of  Fer- 
dinand and  the  administration  of  Ximenes ;  and  a  gen- 
eral review  of  the  administration  of  Ferdinand  and  Isa- 
bella,—  are  the  leading  subjects  of  the  second  portion  of 
Mr.  Prescott's  history. 

Great  events  generally  arise  from  the  conjunction  of 
powerful  natures  and  fitting  opportunities.  We  call  a 
man  great  when  he  has  the  sagacity  to  perceive  these 
opportunities,  and  the  will  to  execute  what  they  teach. 
Individual  character  never  appears  in  such  strength  as 
when  it  works  in  harmony  with  the  spirit  of  the  age.  It 
is  strong  not  only  in  its  own  strength,  but  in  the  accu- 
mulated energies  of  vast  masses  of  men.  There  is  a 
mysterious  power  urging  it  on,  which,  for  want  of  a  more 
accurate  name,  we  call  the  general  tendency  of  the  time. 
No  human  mind  can  possibly  grasp  all  the  elements 
ivhich  enter  into  the  spirit  of  an  age ;  for  this  spirit  is 
out  one  expression  of  the  general  life  of  humanity,  one 
step  in  its  progress  or  retrogression,  and  holds  inscruta- 
ble relations  to  everything  which  has  preceded  it.  To 
give  a  perfect  philosophy  of  an  age,  would  be  to  under- 
stand the  philosophy  of  God's  providence,  and  to  know 
the  history  of  the  future  as  well  as  the  past.  The  near- 
est approximation  to  correctness  in  history  is  where  cir- 
cumstances and  men  are  properly  connected  in  respect 
to  the  production  of  events.  It  will  not  do  to  refer 
»vents  wholly  to  individual  character,  or  to  the  soirit  of 


172  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

the  age  In  the  one  case,  the  man  is  isolated  from 
humanity;  in  the  other,  a  tendency  is  confounded  with 
an  aci.  Thousands  of  men  have  opportunities  and 
inspirations  to  perform  great  things,  but  men  of  genius 
are  none  the  less  rare.  The  Almighty  seems  to  eniow 
some  persons  with  the  power  to  anticipate  the  progress 
of  events,  and  to  produce  at  once  what  the  operation  of  a 
genera!  tendency  upon  a  generation  of  men  would  post- 
pone for  years.  A  historian,  therefore,  fairly  to  describe 
an  age,  must  have  the  powers  of  characterization  and 
generalization  so  related  as  to  operate  harmoniously. 

The  general  tendency  of  the  age  which  forms  the  sub- 
ject of  Mr.  Prescott's  history  was,  in  the  domestic  aflfairs 
of  European  nations,  to  a  concentration  of  power;  and, 
in  their  external  relations,  to  combinations  for  conquest 
or  defence,  and  contests  for  preeminence.  The  sov- 
ereigns under  which  this  revolution  in  the  domestic  and 
foreign  system  of  the  European  states  was  accomplished 
were  admirably  suited  to  their  task.  By  the  union  of 
Castile  and  Aragon  under  Ferdinand  and  Isabella  th-: 
subsequent  conquests  of  Granada,  Navarre,  and  Naples, 
the  acquisition  of  a  new  world  in  America,  and.  the 
marriage  of  the  heiress  of  the  Spanish  dominions  with 
the  son  of  the  Emperor  Maximilian,  Spain,  under  the 
house  of  Austria,  became  the  most  important  power  in 
Europe,  and  long  threatened  its  liberties.  Eobertson,  in 
(lis  History  of  the  Emperor  Charles  the  Fifth,  has  taken 
up  the  history  at  about  the  period  where  Mr.  Prescott's 
ends,  and  exhibited  the  Spanish-Austrian  power  in  its 
most  colossal  form.  Our  countryman  has  traced  it  from 
Its  commencement,  and  developed  the  causes  of  its 
growth.  To  understand  Robertson,  such  a  history  was 
wanted ;   and  certainly  its  subject  would  not  yield   iii 


prescott's  histories  173 

aterest  lo  that  of  the  reign  of  Charles  the  Fifth.  As 
^e  period  which  Mr.  Prescott  selected  was  that  in  which 
the  modem  systei\i  of  Europe  maybe  said  to  have  taken 
its  lise,  and  was  in  an  especial  degree  encumbered  with 
falsehood  and  sophistry,  it  was  a  subject  which  seemed 
at  once  to  tempt  the  historian  by  its  importance  and 
repel  him  by  its  difficulties. 

The  History  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella  shows  that  Mr. 
Prescott  thoroughly  comprehended  the  revolution  to 
which  we  have  referred;  and  his  exposition  of  it  is 
admirable.  His  work  accurately  reflects  the  spirit  of 
the  age  and  the  character  of  its  prominent  actors ;  and 
we  have  been  especially  struck  with  his  felicity  in 
developing  character,  not  in  an  isolated  analysis  of 
qualities,  but  in  the  narration  of  the  events  which  called 
them  forth.  He  so  blends  character  with  events  that 
their  mutual  relation  is  distinctly  seen.  The  reader 
instinctively  connects  persons  with  actions, — what  they 
are  with  what  they  perform  ;  and,  in  doing  this,  he  has 
not  merely  an  idea  of  their  external  conduct,  but  a  clear 
insight  into  their  inward  aims  and  motives.  Thus  to 
diffuse  the  results  cf  analysis  through  the  very  veins  of 
narration,  an.a  picture  forth  character  to  the  imagination, 
is  a  fine  triumph  of  art.  That  mechanical  delineation  of 
:haracter,  which  consists  in  summing  up  a  man's  various 
qualities  at  the  end  of  a  narration  of  his  objects  and  actions, 
Mr.  Prescott  also  possesses ;  but  in  him  it  seems  like  a 
repetition  of  what  he  has  continually  suggested  through- 
out his  whole  narrative.  In  his  accounts  of  events  we 
are  able  to  estimate  better  the  degree  of  power  in  the 
actors,  by  his  exhibiting  the  actors  as  following  or  resist' 
ing  current  tendencies. 

Among  the  wide  variety  of  persons  and  events  to  which 


74  ESSA'SS    AND   REVIEWS. 

Mr.  Prescott's  first  hiijtory  relates,  five  characteiss  stand 
prominently  forth :  —  Isabella,  Ferdinand,  Columbus,  Gon- 
salvo  de  Cordova,  and  Ximenes.  The  character  of  Isa- 
bella Mr.  Prescott  has  skilfully  developed,  through  all 
her  various  relations,  as  queen,  wife,  and  mother.  It 
seems  to  us  that  her  moral  qualities  were  fully  equalled 
by  her  intellectual,  and  that  she  excelled  Ferdinand  in 
both.  Indeed,  the  important  events  of  the  reign  are  all 
traceable,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  to  her.  She  ob- 
tained the  crown  of  Castile  as  much  by  her  virtue, 
prudence,  and  sagacity,  as  her  right.  Her  intellect,  as 
well  as  her  affection,  was  shown  in  her  selection  of 
Ferdinand  as  her  husband.  It  was  she  who  made  force 
yield  to  law  in  Castile,  and  the  reforms  in  its  administra- 
tion refer  to  her  as  their  source.  The  conquest  of  Gra- 
nada might  not  have  been  achieved,  had  it  not  been  for 
her  providence,  forecast,  and  determination.  At  the 
time  almost  every  one  despaired,  it  was  her  indomitable 
resolution  that  infused  new  life  into  the  army.  It  was 
she  who  appreciated  and  aided  Columbus,  when  the 
sharp,  wily  intellect  of  Ferdinand  was  blind  to  the 
grandeur  and  practicability  of  his  plan ;  and  to  her  it 
was  owing  that  the  new  world  was  added  to  the  domin- 
ions of  Spain.  Against  the  advice  and  entreaty  of  Fer- 
dinand, she  raised  Ximenes  to  the  see  of  Toledo,  and 
provided  a  fitting  station  for  the  development  of  his  vast 
energies.  Her  sagacity  detected  the  military  genius  of 
Gonsa'.vo  de  Cordova,  when  he  was  acting  in  a  subordi- 
nate capacity  in  the  war  of  Granada,  and  to  her  it  was 
owing  that  he  had  the  command  of  the  army  in  the 
Italian  wars.  It  is  conceded  that  her  influence  was 
paramount  in  the  domestic  policy  of  the  kingdom,  in  al 
those  measures  which  gav<    it  power  to  act  with  vigo 


prescott's  histories.  1.75 

nbroad ;  but  it  appears  to  as  that,  in  her  selections  of 
Columbus  anu  Gonsalvo,  su^  was  also  the  spring  of  the 
foreign  acquisitions  of  Spain.  Ferdinand,  with  all  his 
capacity  as  a  warrior  and  statesman,  and  with  all  that 
unscrupulousness  which  gave  him  a  command  of  the 
whole  resources  of  perfidy  and  craft,  was  too  selfish 
ever  to  be  wisely  and  greatly  politic.  He  did  the  ditty 
work  of  government  and  conquest  with  inimitable  ability 
and  appearance  of  cleanliness.  His  dark  and  cunning 
mind  fairly  circumvented  every  crowned  and  triple- 
crovmed  contemporary  plotter.  But  he  had  not  sufficient 
elevation  of  character  to  comprehend  a  great  nature. 
The  great  navigator,  the  great  captain,  the  great  priest, 
whose  genius  the  genius  of  Isabella  instinctively  recog- 
nized, were  all  treated  by  him  with  suspicion  and  ingrati- 
tude. The  faults  of  Isabella  were  faults  engrafted  on  her 
nature  by  superstition ;  and  the  persecutions  she  allowed 
or  countenanced  arose  from  a  mistaken  sense  of  religious 
duty,  stimulated  by  a  bigoted  confessor.  Ferdinand  had 
no  more  religion  than  Machiavelli,  and  was  a  persecutor 
from  policy  or  interest.  The  greatest  satire  on  the 
Catholicism  of  the  period  is  contained  in  his  title  of 
Ferdinand  the  Catholic.  We  are  aware  of  no  female 
sovereign  with  whom  Isabella  can  be  compared  in  the 
union  of  energy  and  intelligence  with  grace,  sweetness, 
and  humane  feeling.  Mr.  Prescott  has  instituted  an 
ino-enious  parallel  between  her  and  Elizabeth  of  England, 
in  which  he  happily  traces  their  points  of  resemblance 
and  contrast.  The  Castilian  queen  differed  from  the 
great  English  virago  in  being  a  woman  in  reality  as  well 
as  name. 

In  all  of  Mr.   Prescott's  histories  he  has  to  do  vnth 
Spanish  character,  and  this  he   has  profoundly  studied 


»76  ESSAYS   AND   REVIEWS. 

both  in  itself  and  as  it  was  gradually  moulded  by  relig 
ious  and  political  institutions.  He  lias  considered  the 
Spaniard  in  his  character  as  crusader  and  oppressor,  and 
skilfully  developed  tne  connection  of  his  religion  with 
his  rapacity.  Spain  was  especially  calculated  to  be  the 
Catholic  country  of  Europe;  for  there  Catholicism  was 
associated  with  the  national  existence  and  glory,  and 
with  the  gratification  of  every  selfish  passion.  For  seven 
or  eight  hundred  years  previous  to  the  reign  of  Ferdinand 
and  Isabella,  Spain  had  been  the  theatre  of  a  fierce 
"  holy  "  war  between  Christian  and  Mussulman,  for  the 
possession  of  the  country.  Under  the  banner  of  the 
cross  the  infidel  had  been  gradually  beaten  back  from 
position  to  position,  until  his  power  was  confined  within 
the  kingdom  of  Granada.  All  the  passions  which  Chris- 
tianity rebukes,  all  the  passions  which  war  stimulates, 
Catholicism  sanctified.  There  was  a  fatal  divorce  be- 
tween religion  and  morality.  Lust,  avarice,  cruelty, 
murder,  all  raged  under  a  religious  garb.  Every  devout 
Christian  might  practise  any  enormity  upon  the  heretic 
or  infidel ;  and  devout  Christians  might  plunder  each 
other,  if  the  church  sanctioned  the  robbery.  The  mis- 
chievousness  of  the  system  was,  that  the  imagination  and 
religious  sentiments  of  the  people  were  affected,  as  well 
as  their  bad  passions,  and  strong  faith  sided  with  devilish 
lusts.  It  is  doubtful  whether  the  Spaniard  could  have 
endured  the  privations  which  accompanied  his  conquests 
in  America,  unless  he  had  been  sustained  by  some  relig- 
ious fanaticism :  yet  his  zeal  did  net  stay  his  hand  from 
pillage  and  massacre.  His  bigotry  was  strong  enough  to 
deceive  his  humanity,  and  endowed  the  wolf  with  the 
heroism  of  the  missionary. 

In  the  History  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabejla  we  pe;ttve 


prescott's  histories.  177 

the  religion  of  Spain,  France,  and  Italy,  in  connection 
with  public  affairs,  and  are  able  to  estimate  the  degree 
of  moral  control  it  exercised  over  the  action  of  states. 
In  the  Histories  of  the  Conquest  of  Mexico  and  Peru  we 
see  it  more  directly  in  its  influence  upon  individuals, 
taken  from  various  classes  of  society,  and  pretty  well 
representing  their  age.  No  reader  who  profoundly 
studies  both  aspects  of  this  phenomenon  can  fail  to 
acknowledge  the  wonderful  flexibility  and  power  of  adapt- 
ation of  Catholicism.  He  will  see  clearly  reflected,  in 
Mr.  Prescott's  page,  the  ductility  with  which  it  adapted 
itself  to  the  natural  disposition  of  its  believers,  binding 
equally  saints  and  sinners  to  its  communion,  and  strong 
with  the  strength  of  the  worst  and  best  men  of  the  time. 
The  policy  of  Spain,  during  the  reign  of  Ferdinand  and 
Isabella,  was  to  have  all  its  enterprises  stamped  with  a 
religious  character.  Its  relations  with  the  Pope  are 
among  the  most  curious  points  in  its  history.  It  is  hardly 
a  paradox  to  say  that  Spain  would  have  seceded  from  the 
church,  had  its  interests  or  passions  been  crossed  instead 
of  aided  by  the  Papacy.  Ferdinand's  dealings  with  the 
Pope  are  exceedingly  characteristic.  When  the  latter 
interfered  with  the  internal  affairs  of  his  kingdom,  or 
opposed  him  abroad,  he  had  no  scruples  in  covering  him 
;vith  public  disgrace,  or  in  making  war  upon  him.  He 
found  the  Pope  a  very  convenient  person  to  use,  but  he 
fook  care  not  to  be  used  by  him. 

The  second  work  of  Mr.  Prescott,  the  History  of  the 
Conquest  of  Mexico,  appeared  in  six  years  after  the  pub- 
lication of  his  first.  The  materials  for  this  were  such 
as  no  other  historian  had  ever  enjoyed.  From  Madrid 
alone  he  obtained  unpublished  documents,  consisting  of 
military  and  private  journals,  contemporary  chionicles. 

VOL.  II.  12 


178  ESSAYS  AND  REv:-.r,ws. 

legal  instruments,  correspondence  of  the  actors  in  the 
conquest,  etc,  amounting  to  eight  thousand  folio  pages 
From  Mexico  he  gleaned  numerous  valuable  MSS. 
which  had  escaped  the  diligence  of  Spanish  collectors. 
These,  with  M'^hat  he  derived  from  a  variety  of  other 
sources,  including  the  archives  of  the  family  of  Cortes, 
placed  in  his  possession  a  mass  of  materials  sufficient  to 
give  a  basis  of  undoubted  facts  to  his  wonderful  narra- 
tive, and  subdue  the  scepticism  of  tiie  modern  reader  by 
the  very  accumulation  of  testimony.  It  is  needless  to 
add  that  he  also  obtained  everything  in  a  printed  form 
which  had  reference  to  his  subject.  The  result  of  all 
his  labors,  of  research,  thought  and  composition,  was 
a  history  possessing  the  unity,  variety,  and  interest, 
of  a  magnificent  poem.  It  deals  with  a  series  of  facts, 
and  exhibits  a  gallery  of  characters,  which,  to  have 
invented,  would  place  its  creator  by  the  side  of  Homer; 
and  which  to  realize  and  represent,  in  the  mode  Mr. 
Prescott  has  done,  required  a  rare  degree  of  historical 
imagination.  It  may  be  that  the  imperfection  of  the 
historian's  eyes  was  one  cause  of  his  success.  He  was 
compelled  to  develop  his  memory  to  the  full  extent  of 
its  capacity;  but  memory  depends,  to  a  considerable 
degree,  upon  understanding,  sensibility,  and  imagination. 
To  recollect  facts,  they  must  be  digested,  methodized  and 
realized.  The  judgment  must  place  them  in  their  nat- 
ural order;  the  heart  must  fasten  its  sympathies  to  them  ; 
the  imagination  must  see  them  as  pictures.  They  are 
then  a  possession  forever.  To  the  inward  vision  of  the 
mind  they  are  as  much  living  realities  as  though  they 
were  present  to  the  outward  eye. 

In  our  limited  space  we  cannot  gii^e  anything  which 
would  approach  to  an  account  of  this  work.     In  its  gen- 


prescott's  histories.  179 

tral  plan  and  composition,  it  illustrates  what  we  have 
previously  said  of  Mr.  Prescott's  processes  as  a  historian. 
We  had  marked  our  copy  on  every  page,  ir  tending  to 
notice  numerous  passages  for  comment  or  quotation ;  and 
certainly  the  work  is  full  enough  of  strange  facts  and 
wonderful  adventures  to  awaken  new  views  of  the  pow- 
ers and  perversions  of  human  nature.  Mr.  Prescolt 
first  introduces  the  reader  to  the  people  and  country  of 
Mexico,  and  gives  a  luminous  view  of  the  ancient  Mex- 
ican civilization.  In  the  space  of  two  hundred  pages 
he  comprehends  a  survey  of  the  races  inhabiting  the 
country,  and  brings  before  us  their  character,  history, 
government,  religion,  science,  arts,  domestic  manners, 
everything,  in  short,  necessary  to  a  comprehension  of 
their  intellectual,  moral,  and  political  condition,  at  the 
period  Cortes  commenced  his  enterprise.  This  introduc- 
tion is  mostly  confined  to  the  Aztecs,  as  they  were  the 
fiercest,  most  sanguinary,  most  intelligent,  and  most 
powerful,  of  the  Mexican  races ;  and  as  it  was  against 
their  empire  that  the  efforts  of  the  conquerors  were  prin 
cipally  directed.  Then  follows  the  story  of  the  conquest, 
with  all  its  remarkable  features  of  heroism  and  cruelty. 
Cortes  is,  of  course,  the  cent^fil  figure  of  the  group,  —  the 
soul,  and  almost  the  body,  of  the  enterprise;  and  around 
him  are  gathered  some  of  the  bravest  warriors  that 
romance  ever  imagined,  encountering  dangers  and  sur 
viving  miseries  which,  in  a  romance,  would  be  pronounced 
impossible.  The  picture  presents  the  meeting  of  two 
civilizations,  brought  in  a  rude  shock  against  each  other, 
and  the  triumph  of  the  race  which  was  superior  in  craft 
and  science.  In  the  followers  of  Cortes  we  have  what 
we  would  now  call  a  gang  of  thieves,  pirates,  ravishers, 
and  assassins,  yet  displaying  in  their  worst  excesses  the 


180  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

courage  and  endurance  of  heroes,  and  sustained  in  (heii 
worst  calamities  by  what  tliey  were  pleased  to  call  their 
religion.  The  pagan  Aztec  gave  the  first  place  in  his 
bloody  pantheon  to  his  terrible  war-god,  and  with  a  can- 
nibal appetite  devoured  the  body  of  his  captive.  We 
have  some  consolation  for  this  in  knowing  the  Aztec  was 
a  heathen,  and  his  god  a  chimera.  But  the  deity  the 
Spanish  Catholic  worshipped,  and  to  whom  he  prayed  for 
aid  in  his  schemes  of  avarice,  lust,  and  murder,  was  also 
of  Mexican  origin,  however  much  he  may  have  deceived 
himself  into  the  behef  he  was  addressing  the  Christian's 
God.  Moloch,  Mammon,  and  Belial,  were  the  inspiration 
of  his  schemes  of  conquest  and  deeds  of  massacre. 

The  great  checks  upon  rapacity  are  conscience  and 
natural  humanity.  It  is  one  of  the  objects  of  true  reli- 
gion to  strengthen  and  increase  these  natural  obstacles 
to  crime.  When,  however,  bigotry  sides  with  rapacity 
against  human  feeling,  and  breaks,  instead  of  tightening, 
the  bond- of  brotherhood,  it  produces  those  monstrosities 
of  action  so  difficult  to  reconcile  with  the  common  prin- 
ciples of  human  nature.  We  can  conceive  of  men  as 
becoming  demons,  but  the  difficulty  is  to  conceive  of 
them  as  performing  demoniacal  acts  from  motives  partly 
religious,  and  preserving  any  humanities  in  their  char- 
acter after  the  performance.  Yet  this  we  are  compelled 
continually  to  do,  in  following  the  Spaniards  in  theii 
American  conquests.  It  is  one  of  the  charms  of  Mr. 
Prescott's  histoiy,  that  his  worst  characters  are  so  fully 
developed  that  we  perceive  their  humanity  as  well  as 
their  rascality.  They  never  appear  as  bundles  of  evil 
qualities,  but  as  men. 

Mr.  Prescott  places  his  readers  in  a  posit  "on  to  ur.cer 
stand  the  moral  condition  of  his  personages,  as  that  con 


prescott's  histories.  181 

dition  was  influenced  by  the  current  practices  of  their 
age,  and  by  their  individual  lives.  Crimes,  in  their 
riffect  upon  characier,  change  their  nature  as  the  con- 
ventional standard  of  morals  varies.  To  commit  any 
delinquency  whatever  exercises  a  pernicious  effect  upon 
character ;  but  its  effect  is  not  so  pernicious,  when  it  is 
hailed  as  the  sign  of  the  hero,  as  when  it  is  hooted  at 
as  the  brand  of  the  felon.  In  the  one  case  a  man  may 
discharge  many  of  the  social  and  public  duties  of  life, 
and  preserve  that  degree  of  morality  and  religion  con- 
veyed in  the  phrase  of  "  a  respectable  citizen ;  "  in  the 
other  case,  he  sinks  into  the  common  herd  of  profligates 
'  nd  criminals,  and  makes  war  upon  respectable  citizens. 
^n  one  sense,  shedding  blood  in  battle  is  murder ;  yet 
there  is  still  a  great  difference  in  the  moral  character  of 
General  Scott  and  Jonathan  Wild.  No  well-minded 
person  can  now  follow  the  career  of  Cortes  without  an 
expression  of  horror  and  indignation ;  yet  the  country- 
men of  CortfcS  applauded  his  exploits,  as  our  countrymen 
applaud  those  of  the  victor  of  Monterey  and  Buena 
Vista. 

There  is  another  very  important  fact  to  be  considered 
in  our  estimate  of  the  Spaniards.  The  Pope,  in  whom 
was  lodged  the  power  to  dispose  of  the  kingdoms  of  the 
heathen,  had  given  the  new  world  to  Spain,  to  be  con- 
quered and  converted.  Cortes,  as  a  devout  Catholic, 
had  nc  scruples  about  the  right  of  conquest.  Mexico 
was  clearly  his,  or  his  sovereign's,  provided  he  could  get 
it.  Now,  assuming  the  right  of  conquest,  all  the  crimes 
in  which  he  was  directly  implicated  might  be  extenuated 
by  the  right  of  self-defence.  The  truth  is,  he  had  no 
right  to  Mexico  at  all ;  and  tie  chief  crime  he  committed 
was  in  its  invasion:  but  the  head  of  Christendom  ha  J 


82  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

iecided  for  him  that  this  was  not  a  crime,  but  a  right 
Many  good  Catholics  might  have  been,  and  doubtless 
were,  shocked  at  the  barbarities  which  accompanied  the 
conquest :  but  Cortes  might  have  replied  that  what  he 
did  was  necessary  to  obtain  his  rightful  objects  ;  that  the 
question  simply  was,  whether  he  and  his  followers  should 
be  sacrificed  to  the  Mexican  gods,  or  a  certain  number 
of  Aztecs  should  be  massacred.  We  know  that  his 
cruelties  sprang  from  no  disregard  of  his  religion,  such 
as  it  was.  For  that  religion  he  was  ready  to  die  at  any 
moment ;  for  that  religion  he  repeatedly  risked  the  suc- 
cess of  his  enterprise ;  and  it  required  all  the  address  of 
Father  Almedo  to  prevent  his  zeal  for  the  conversion  of 
the  natives  and  the  overthrow  of  their  gods  from  involv- 
ing himself  and  his  cause  in  a  common  ruin. 

Cort.'s  was  in  all  respects  a  remarkable  man,  whether 
we  consider  the  strength  or  the  versatility  of  his  genius. 
He  attempted  an  enterprise  as  daring  as  ever  entered  the 
head  of  a  maniac,  and  brought  it  to  a  successful  result  by 
the  resources  of  his  own  mind.  He  was  at  once  the 
most  enthusiastic  and  most  prudent  of  men,  —  a  heart 
all  fire,  and  a  head  all  ice.  His  intellect  was  large, 
flexible,  capacious  of  great  plans,  inexhaustible  in  expe- 
dients, and  preserving,  in  the  fiercest  inward  excitement 
of  his  passions,  a  wonderful  coolness,  clearness,  and 
readiness.  He  seems  to  have  been  naturally  a  man  of 
quick  sensibility,  rather  than  of  deep  feeling, — a  cava- 
lier elegant  in  person,  lax  in  morals,  with  much  versa- 
tility but  little  concentration  of  power,  and  chiefly 
distinguished  for  qualities  which  captivate,  rather  than 
command.  It  was  not  until  his  mind  had  been  possessed 
by  one  dominant  idea  that  the  latent  powers  of  his  nature 
were  displayed.     This  idea  he  held  with  the  grasp  of 


prescott's  histories.  183 

|;>int,  and  it  tamed  his  volatile  passions,  and  concentrated 
his  flashing  powers,  and  put  iron  into  his  will.  Every- 
thing, including  life  itselt  was  to  him  of  little  import- 
ance, compared  with  the  conquest  of  Mexico.  In  his 
darkest  hours  of  defeat  and  despondency,  when  hope 
appeared  to  all  others  but  the  insanity  of  folly,  he  never 
gave  up  his  project,  but  renewed  his  attempts  to  perform 
the  "  impossible  "  with  the  coolness  of  one  setting  about 
a  commonplace  enterprise.  It  is  needless  to  say  that 
this  idea  made  him  unscrupulous,  and  silenced  all  objec- 
tions to  the  commission  of  convenient  crime.  He  was 
not  cruel  by  nature  ;  that  is,  he  took  no  pleasure  in 
viewing  or  inflicting  pain  :  but  his  mind  was  remorseless. 
Like  other  conquerors,  he  never  allowed  his  feelings  to 
interfere  with  his  plans,  and  carelessly  sacrificed  friends 
and  foes  to  the  success  of  a  project.  His  hand  executed 
at  once  what  his  mind  conceived,  not  so  much  because 
he  excelled  other  men  in  vigor,  but  because  he  was  not 
'  eterred  from  action  by  any  scruples.  Remorselessness 
.s  almost  ever  the  key  to  that  vigor  which  is  so  much 
praised  in  great  warriors  and  statesmen.  If  human 
nature  consisted  simply  of  intellect  and  will,  the  world 
would  be  full  of  vigorous  characters  ;  but  the  vigoi 
would  be  demoniacal.  To  a  cruel  man  the  bloodshed 
which  attended  the  conquest  of  Mexico  would  have  been 
pleasant  of  itself;  to  Cortes,  who  was  its  cause,  it  was  a 
meie  means  to  an  end.  The  desolation  of  a  province 
and  the  butchery  of  its  inhabitants  were  merely  pro- 
c(!sses  of  working  out  a  practical  problem.  The  remorse- 
lessness of  thought  produces  more  suffering  than  the 
cruelty  of  passion.  The  latter  may  be  glutted  with  n 
lew  victims  at  a  time  ;  the  former  may  scatter  fireb'ands 
WTows,  and    death,  over   an   empire.     Cortts,    in    tJii? 


184  fiSSAYS    AND   REVIEWS. 

respect,  was  nr.,<  worse  than  a  hundred  others  whose 
'  vigor"  is  the  admiration  of  the  world,  and  the  inspira- 
tion of  the  devil. 

No  general  ever  excelled  Cortes  in  the  command  he 
exercised  over  the  minds  and  hearts  of  his  followers 
He  knew  them  better  than  they  knew  themselves,  and 
his  ready  eloquence  reached  the  very  sources  of  their 
volitions.  He  was  at  once  their  commander  and  com- 
panion. He  could  bring  them  round  to  his  plans  against 
the  evidence  of  their  five  senses,  and  make  them  dance 
in  the  very  chains  of  famine  and  fatigue.  The  enter- 
prise would  have  been  repeatedly  abandoned,  had  it  not 
been  for  his  coolness,  intrepidity,  and  honeyed  eloquence. 
His  whole  lawless  and  licentious  crew  he  held  by  a  fas- 
cination for  which  they  could  not  themselves  account. 
They  suspected  him  of  making  their  lives  and  fortunes 
subsidiary  to  his  ambition  ;  they  taxed  him  with  deceit 
and  treachery;  they  determined  again  and  again  to 
leave  him  ;  and  yet  they  followed  him  —  followed  him, 
against  their  desires  and  reason,  to  encounter  the  most 
appalling  dangers,  for  an  object  which  receded  as  they 
advanced,  and  which  they  constantly  pronounced  a 
chimera.  The  speeches  of  Cortes,  given  by  Mr.  Prescott, 
are  master-pieces  of  practical  eloquence.  Indeed,  wher- 
ever Cortes  was,  there  could  be  but  one  will ;  and  whai 
authority  was  unable  to  do,  he  did  by  finesse  and  persua- 
sion. 

Cortes  was  brave  in  almost  every  sense  of  the  term. 
He  combined  the  courage  of  the  knight-errant  and  the 
martyr.  His  daring  in  battle,  perhaps,  was  not  greatei 
than  that  exhibited  by  some  of  his  officers,  —  Alvarado,  fo! 
example  ;  but  he  excelled  all  in  the  power  of  endurance 
His  constancy  of  purpose  had  the   obstinacy  of  sliee' 


prescott's  histories.  18f> 

stupidity,  and  seems  almost  incompatible  with  his  fiery 
valor.  Famine,  fatigue,  pestilence,  defeat,  every  extreme 
of  mental  and  physical  wretchedness,  could  present  i^o 
arguments  sufficiently  strong  to  shake  his  purpose  of  con- 
quest. What  depressed  his  followers  only  called  forth 
nis  courage  in  its  most  splendid  light.  When  he  him- 
self had  most  cause  for  despondency,  his  serene  valor 
not  only  mounted  above  his  own  miseries,  but  enabled 
him  to  use  all  the  resources  of  his  fertile  mind  in  cheer- 
ing his  followers.  Wounded,  bleeding,  wasted  by  fam- 
ine, broken  down  by  disease  and  despair,  there  was 
always  one  voice  whose  magical  tones  could  make  their 
hearts  leap  with  their  old  daring,  and  send  them  again 
on  their  old  enterprise  of  peril  and  death. 

We  cannot  follow  the  genius  of  Cortes  as  it  was 
developed  in  the  events  of  the  conquest,  and  attempt  an 
abstract  of  what  Mr.  Prescott  has  performed  with  such 
fulness,  richness,  and  power.  Rarely  has  so  splendid  a 
theme  been  treated  by  a  historian  so  fortunate  at  once  in 
the  possession  of  requisite  materials  and  requisite  capac- 
ity. Among  the  many  characteristics  of  the  work,  that 
which  will  be  most  likely  to  strike  and  charm  the  gen- 
eral reader  is  its  picturesqueness  of  description,  both  as 
regards  incidents  and  scenery.  The  freshness  and  vivid- 
ness with  which  everything  is  presented  is  a  continua 
stimulant  to  attention  ;  and  there  is  a  nerve  in  the  move 
ment  of  the  style  which  gives  to  the  narrative  a  con 
tinual  vitality.  Among  these  descriptions  we  wouIp 
particularize  the  account  of  the  retreat  from  Mexico,  i.«» 
the  second  volume,  and  the  battles  which  preceded  its 
final  conquest  and  destruction,  in  the  third,  as  being 
especially  pervaded  by  intense  life  .  The  critical  mader, 
also  will  not  fail  to  perceive  that  the  interest  of  particu* 


186  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

lar  passages  is  subservient  to  the  general  effect  of  the 
whole,  and  that  the  author  has  produced  a  work  of  art 
as  well  as  a  history.  That  quality  of  objectiveness, 
which  we  have  mentioned  as  characterizing  the  mind  of 
Mr.  Prescott,  and  favorably  distinguishing  him  from 
many  eminent  historians,  is  especially  obvious  when  we 
contrast  the  representations  in  "Ferdinand  and  Isabella" 
with  those  in  the  "  Conquest  of  Mexico."  The  objects 
are  different,  and  in  each  case  they  are  presented  in  their 
own  form,  life,  and  character.  We  can  conceive  of  the 
two  histories  as  the  production  of  separate  minds.  But 
few  historians  are  thus  capable  of  representing  objects  in 
white  light.  To  see  anything  through  the  medium  of 
another  mind,  is  too  often  to  see  it  caricatured.  Objects, 
to  the  egotist,  whether  he  be  called  thinker  or  coxcomb, 
are  commonly  mirrors  which  more  or  less  reflect  hunself. 
Nature,  events,  and  persons,  are  considered  as  deriving 
their  chief  importance  from  their  relation  to  him.  This 
relation,  and  not  their  relation  to  each  other,  he  is  prone 
to  call  the  philosophy  of  history. 


PRESCOTT'S  CONQUEST  OF  PERU.* 

This  work  has  probably  been  the  most  extensively 
popular  of  Mr.  Prescott's  histories,  though  the  subject 
would  not  seem  to  admit  so  many  elements  of  interest 
as  the  others.  In  ''Ferdinand  and  Isabella"  he  had  a 
period  of  time  crowded  with  important  events  and  strik- 
ing characters,  a  period  which  witnessed  the  organiza- 
tion of  a  powerful  nation  out  of  seemingly  discordant 
elements,  and  which  opened  to  the  historian  the  whole 
field  of  European  politics  during  one  of  the  most  import- 
ant epochs  of  modern  civilization.  In  the  "  Conquest  of 
RIexico  "  he  had  an  epic  story,  capable  of  the  strictest 
artistic  treatment,  with  that  strangeness  in  incidents  and 
scenery  which  fastens  most  readily  on  the  attention.  If 
he  has  made  the  present  work  more  interesting  than  the 
others,  it  must  be  owing  to  greater  felicity  in  its  treat- 
ment. This  felicity  does  not  arise  from  a  departure  from 
his  historical  method,"  or  from  the  adoption  of  a  new  form 
of  composition,  but  is  the  result  of  a  more  complete 
vlevelopment  of  his  method  and  his  style.  In  the  "  Con- 
quest of  Peru  "  his  characteristic  merits  are  displayed  in 
iheir  best  aspect,  exhibiting  the  effects  of  time  and  ex- 
perience in  giving  more  intensity  to  his  conceptions,  and 

*  History  of  the  Conquest  of  Peru,  with  a  Prelirrinary  View  of  the  Civil- 
nation  of  the  Incas.  By  William  H.  Prescott.  8vo.  2  vols.  New  Yorls 
tfarper  &  Brothers.  — Methodist  Quarterli/  Review,  April,  1S4S. 


18y  ESSAYS    AND    RE^aEAA'S. 

more  certainty  to  his  language.  Accordingly,  we  have 
not  here  to  chronicle  a  decay  of  power,  but  its  freer  and 
more  vigorous  expression. 

Mr.  Prescott's  leading  excellence  is  that  healthy  ob- 
jectiveness  of  mind  which  enables  him  to  represent  per- 
sons and  events  in  their  just  relations.  Of  all  his  his- 
tories, we  think  that  the  present,  while  it  illustrates  this 
characteristic  merit,  approaches  nearest  to  the  truth  of 
things,  and  presents  them  with  the  most  clearness  and 
vividness.  The  scenery,  characters,  incidents,  with 
which  his  history  deals,  are  all  conceived  with  singular 
interysity,  and  appear  on  his  page  instinct  with  their 
peculiar  life.  The  book,  on  this  very  account,  has  been 
charged  in  some  quarters  with  exaggeration,  with  giving 
more  importance  to  the  subject  than  its  relative  position 
in  history  will  warrant.  This  objection  we  consider  as 
implying  its  greatest  praise.  We  admit  that  the  Con- 
quest of  Peru  does  not  take  that  place  in  the  history  of 
the  world,  as  commonly  written,  which  it  assumes  in  Mr. 
Prescott's  narrative  ;  but  we  think  that  history,  as  com- 
monly written,  conveys  but  a  feeble  notion  of  persons 
and  events.  Undoubtedly  the  wars  between  Charles  V. 
and  Francis  I.  were  more  important  than  the  skirmishes 
of  the  Spaniards  with  the  Peruvians  :  but  we  by  no 
means  acknowledge  that  this  is  indicated  in  Robertson ; 
and  we  think  it  a  strange  blunder  of  criticism  to  demand 
that  the  historian  shall  place  his  work  in  relation  to  other 
histories,  instead  of  making  it  a  mirror  of  his  subject ; 
and,  because  the  usual  description  of  the  battle  of  Pavia 
conveys  no  idea  of  an  engagement,  require  that  the 
account  of  the  capture  of  Atahualpa  shall  convey  nc 
'dea  of  a  massacre.  The  truth  is,  Mr.  Prescott  hag 
lone,  in  this  matter,  all  that  criticism  can  sensibly  de- 


PRE&COTT  S    CONQUE&r    OF    PERU.  189 

Bire  in  observing  the  natural  relations  of  the  characters 
and  events  with  which  he  deals,  and  in  varying  the 
intensity  of  his  representation  with  the  varying  import- 
ance of  the  different  parts  of  his  History.  If  he  had 
capriciously  gi^en  prominence  to  some  things  which 
would  naturally  fall  in  the  background,  or  exaggerated 
others  out  of  their  proper  connections,  his  work  would 
have  been  inconsistent  with  the  truth,  and  justly  amena- 
ble to  criticism ;  but,  instead  of  this,  he  has  reproduced, 
with  vivid  accuracy,  the  whole  course  of  the  conquest, 
solicitous  only  to  convey  clear  impressions  of  actual 
things,  and  to  print  them  on  the  mind  in  their  true  char- 
acter and  vital  relations.  If  in  doing  this  he  has  shown 
more  force  of  conception  and  felicity  of  narration  than 
the  class  of  dignified  historians ;  if  he  has  avoided  all 
verbal  forms  and  barren  generalities  in  the  surrender  of 
his  mind  to  the  objects  which  impressed  it ;  if,  in  short, 
he  has  been  more  desirous  to  exhibit  his  subject  than  to 
make  a  show  of  himself,  we  protest  against  his  being 
judged  by  rules  which  he  does  not  pretend  to  follow,  and 
having  his  excellence  tested  by  principles  drawn  from 
the  defects  of  other  historians. 

Indeed,  the  great  merit  of  the  work  consists  in  its 
representing  a  portion  of  universal  history  as  a  living, 
appreciable  reality.  The  comparative  narrowness  of  the 
subject,  and  fewness  of  the  characters,  enabled  him  to 
perform  this  with  the  greater  completeness.  There  Avaa 
less  room  for  generalization,  and  more  for  individualiza- 
tion ;  more  space  for  pictures,  and  less  for  propositions. 
Accordingly,  everything  is  realized;  everything  stands 
out  in  its  distinct  shape  and  dimensions,  and  moves  on 
with  the  general  movement  of  the  narration.  We  become 
acquainted,  not   only  with  the   leaders,  but  with    'heii 


190  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

individual  followers  ;  discerning  their  motives,  .the  com- 
plex action  of  their  passions,  the  strange  jumble  of 
ferocity,  valor,  superstition,  and  diabolism,  which  went 
to  make  up  their  characters.  It  mtist  be  confessed,  we 
are  placed  in  the  company  of  a  herd  of  graceless  rascals, 
who,  with  all  their  valorous  vice  and  heroic  baseness, 
richly  deserve  the  gallows  ;  but  we  are  still  not  among 
demons  or  monstrosities,  but  among  bad  men.  It  is 
liuman  nature,  we  perceive,  though  human  nature  in  a 
form  so  perverted  as  to  make  us  almost  ashamed  of  it. 
An  insight  so  vivid  into  the  character  of  the  soldiers  of 
Pizarro  and  Almagro,  and  of  the  conventional  morality 
of  the  age,  gives  us  a  knowledge  of  the  period  which  we 
can  easily  apply  to  persons  of  more  historical  import- 
ance, and  events  of  greater  magnitude.  In  Peru  we  have, 
as  it  were,  a  microcosm,  wherein  we  can  see  Catholic 
Europe  as  it  was  at  the  commencement  of  the  sixteenth 
century ;  the  little  world  is  a  fair  diminutive  of  the  great 
world,  and  more  comprehensible  from  its  compression. 
Its  study  enables  us  to  understand  somewhat  the  nature 
of  that  moral  confusion  which  springs  from  a  violation 
of  eternal  laws ;  from  the  skirmishes  of  Pizarro  we  can 
infer  the  character  of  those  awful  wars  which  we  read 
of  in  history  with  so  even  a  pulse ;  and  from  the  cruelty 
and  rapacity  of  the  Spaniards  we  see  how  thin  is  often 
the  partition  which  separates  the  regular  soldier  from  the 
proficit  nt  in  rapine,  massacre,  and  lust.  We  believe,  if 
.listory  were  written  throughout  with  this  truth  to  things, 
that,  in  increasing  our  knowledge,  it  would  improve  our 
moral  judgments.  The  reason  that  the  gigantic  vices  of 
the  powerful  do  not  commonly  draw  down  upon  their 
heads  a  corresponding  load  of  infamy,  is  owing  to  the 
feebleness  with  which  those  vices  are  commonly  con- 


PEEt)i.Ul'T'S    CONQUEST    OF    PERU.  191 

eeived.  We  are  sensible  of  the  energies  such  men  dis- 
play, and  glow  in  the  recital  of  their  exploits  ;  but  we 
overlook  the  guilt  and  baseness  of  the  means  they  often 
employ  In  order  that  a  historian  should  rightly  affect 
us  in  this  matter,  it  is  not  necessary  that  he  should  set 
certain  commonplaces  at  stated  distances  in  his  narrative, 
declaring  how  naughty  it  is  for  men  to  cut  each  other's 
throats  and  blowout  each  other's  brains;  but  it  is  import- 
ant that,  in  representing  a  battle,  he  should  make  us 
realize  the  sufferings  it  occasions,  and  the  demoniacal 
passions  it  unleashes.  This  cannot  be  done  by  express- 
ing the  dead  and  wounded  in  a  row  of  figures.  We 
have  read  accounts  of  Austerlitz  and  Leipsic  which 
inspired  us  with  less  sympathy  than  the  account  given 
by  Mr.  Prescott  of  some  contest  where  hardly  a  hundred 
were  killed.  In  the  "  Conquest  of  Peru  "  we  gain  some 
notion  of  the  fathomless  baseness  of  brazen  selfishness 
and  rapacity,  and  no  great  energies  developed  by  the  con- 
querors can  possibly  lift  it  into  respect.  If  the  contem- 
plation urges  us  to  fix  a  darker  and  more  indelible  brand 
of  reprobation  on  the  impudent  enormities  of  all  public 
criminals,  of  all  robbers  and  murderers  on  a  great  scale, 
there  will  be  some  check  given  to  that  absurd  apotheosis 
of  colossal  depravity,  that  idolatry  of  great  men  who 
have  warred  against  the  interest  of  the  race,  which  now 
fills  the  temple  of  fame  with  Titans  from  the  shambles, 
and  inspires  emulation  instead  of  horror  among  the 
energetic  spirits  of  every  age. 

It  seems  to  us  that  Mr.  Prescott  thus  produces  morality 
of  effect  by  truth  of  representation.  This  is  as  much 
better  than  moralizing,  as  the  perfume  which  escapes 
from  a  rose  is  better  than  rose-water.  If  the  historian 
has  the  heart  and  bram  to  graso  the  truth,  he  may  safely 


192  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEU.. 

teave  the  rest  to  the  reader's  moral  instincts.  But  this 
power  of  truthful  representation  is  not  a  common  quality 
It  implies  the  possession  of  a  healthy  mind,  with  largu 
powers  harmoniously  balanced ;  it  demands  capacity  as 
well  as  conscience,  freedom  from  prejudice  as  well  as 
freedom  from  fraud.  It  is  not  ever  the  prize  of  good 
intentions.  It  balks  even  the  honest  and  intelligent, 
when  force  of  conception  is  not  accompanied  by  a  cor- 
responding felicity  of  style.  In  the  case  of  Mr,  Prescott 
that  combination  of  powers,  analytical,  reflective,  and 
representative,  which  constitutes  his  truthfulness,  is  ex- 
pressed altogether  in  the  unobtrusive  form  of  narration 
and  description.  The  distinguishing  peculiarity  of  the 
present  work  is,  that  all  the  processes  of  the  historian's 
mind  are  suppressed,  and  the  results  alone  given.  By 
this  method  he  has  added  to  the  interest  of  the  history, 
but  deprived  himself  of  all  that  reputation  which  half- 
bred  minds  confer  upon  the  show  of  judgment  and  argu- 
mentation. His  narrative  reads  as  simply  and  clearly  as 
if  it  had  cost  no  labor  of  thought  and  investigation. 
Many  of  its  delighted  readers  will  be  but  little  impressed 
with  the  force  of  the  mind  whence  it  proceeded,  and 
pronounce  it  almost  as  easy  to  write  as  to  peruse.  It 
may  not,  therefore,  be  oiit  of  place  to  attempt  here  an 
analysis  of  the  narrative  process,  and  indicate  the  various 
powers  it  calls  into  action.  Such  a  course  may  have 
some  effect  in  checking  the  presumptuous  underestimate 
which  undeveloped  geniuses  ever  put  upon  finished 
works,  which  have  been  so  artistically  organized  as  to 
seem  artless. 

If  we  form  an  idea  of  the  materials  from  which  Mr. 
Prescott's  history  was  constructed,  and  place  them  in 
opposition  to  the  work  itself,  we  cannot  fail  to  see  a  grea/ 


PRESCOTT'S   conquest   of    PERU.  193 

space  betweer.  the  two,  through  which  the  historian's 
mind  must  have  passed  in  successive  steps.  In  con- 
temporary histories,  biographies,  chronicles,  state  papers, 
etc.,  principally  in  a  MS.  form,  he  was  compelled  to 
search  for  his  facts.  In  the  examination  of  these,  con- 
tradictory statements  were  to  be  reconciled  —  falsehood, 
prror,  prejudice,  credulity,  and  all  the  many  forms  of 
misrepresentation,  were  to  be  detected  —  and  order  and 
connection  were  to  be  educed  from  the  midst  of  confusion. 
The  industry,  the  research,  the  analysis  of  character,  the 
long  trains  of  minute  reasoning,  the  sagacity  which 
instinctively  rejects  the  smoothest  and  most  plausible 
lie,  —  in  short,  all  those  intellectual  powers  which  are 
exercised  in  a  judicial  scrutiny  of  evidence,  and  which, 
when  exhibited  to  the  reader,  convey  so  high  an  opinion 
of  a  historian's  mental  capacity,  —  Mr.  Prescott  is  content 
to  banish  from  his  page.  After  subjecting  his  authorities 
to  this  alembic  process,  and  sifting  out  the  truth  they 
contained,  the  facts  thus  mastered  were  to  be  vividly 
realized  in  their  original  life,  and  placed  in  their  right 
relations,  so  that  the  principles  they  embodied  or  illus- 
trated could  be  distinctly  apprehended  by  the  reader, 
without  being  expressed  to  him  in  propositions.  Here, 
also,  was  a  long  and  delicate  process,  which  Mr.  Prescott 
suppresses,  in  which  the  historian,  at  once  surveying  the 
whole  field  of  events,  and  understanding  their  individual 
import,  sees  both  the  intentions  of  the  actors  and  the 
operations  of  general  law's,  brings  effects  into  distinct 
connection  with  causes,  and  from  the  loose  links  of 
occurrences  rivets  the  chain  of  events.  After  his  facts 
had  thus  been  connected  so  as  to  form  an  organic  whole., 
after  the  hfstory  had  taken  its  shape  in  his  own  mind,  he 
had  still  the  additional  task  of  embodying  it  in  a  form 
VOL.   u.  13 


194  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

of  expression  which  would  convey  it   to  other  minds 
exactly  as  it  animated  his  own. 

We  do  not  suppose  there  can  be  any  controversy  as  to 
his  success  in  this  last  and  most  important  process.  It 
would  be  difficult  to  name  a  history  which  excels  that  of 
the  Conquest  of  Peru  in  the  art  of  making  the  forms  and 
colors  of  things  shine  through  the  expression.  The  style 
is  a  running  stream,  which  mirrors  objects  so  fully  and 
distinctly  that  we  are  hardly  conscious  of  the  medium 
through  M  hich  they  are  seen.  Such  a  diction  impresses 
us  only  by  what  it  conveys.  On  reading  the  book  for 
the  first  time,  we  could  easily  recollect  its  events,  and 
retained  clear  conceptions  of  its  characters ;  but  we  should 
have  been  puzzled  to  answer  a  question  regarding  the 
structure  of  its  style.  We  hardly  noticed  a  paragraph 
in  which  words  took  the  place  of  things,  or  in  which 
anything  was  said  merely  for  the  sake  of  saying  it  well. 
Yet  we  found,  on  an  after  examination,  sentences  bend- 
ing beneath  the  weight  of  matter,  instances  of  terse, 
keen,  tingling  expression,  of  verbal  felicities,  of  animated 
and  picturesque  description,  and  an  absence  of  that  bald- 
ness and  poverty  of  language  which  usually  characterizes 
what  is  called  a  simple  style.  The  diction  is  neither 
stilted  nor  mean;  it  neither  courts  nor  discards  orna- 
ment ;  but  moves  on  with  a  beautiful  and  dignified  ease, 
yielding  gracefully  to  the  demands  of  different  objects  as 
they  rise,  and-  with  all  its  genuine  simplicity  and  fine 
abandonment  to  the  things  it  describes,  is  still  always 
the  style  of  a  historian,  not  of  a  story-teller.  To  pre 
serve  thus  a  certain  inherent  dignity  of  manner,  withou 
a  sacrifice  of  sweetness,  melody,  raciness,  and  "  polished 
want  of  polish,"  —  to  maintain  constantly  a  distinction 
oetween  the  historian  and  the  chronicler,  the  narrator 


pkescott's  conquest  of  PERU.  lyft 

*nd  the  gossip,  —  to  glide  so  fearlessly  along  the  dizzjf 
edges  of  familiar  narration  without  ever  slipping  into 
bathos  or  flippancy,  —  is  a  triumph  which  few  nave  suc- 
ceeded in  achieving,  and  which  Mr.  Prescott  himself  has 
only  fully  reached  in  the  "  Conquest  of  Peru."  In  con 
sidering  his  remarkable  felicity  in  narration,  it  is  not 
singular  that  he  has  reduced  to  this  shape  a  great  deal 
of  matter  which  might  have  been  expressed  in  a  different 
and  more  ambitious  form. 

In  this  incomplete  analysis,  we  think  we  have  indi- 
cated that  good  narration  is  not  a  single  power,  but  a 
combination  of  many  powers ;  that  it  not  only  implies 
sensibility,  imagination,  and  command  of  language,  but 
also  often  includes  the  results  of  the  most  toilsome 
drudgery  of  investigation,  and  the  most  stringent  exer- 
cise of  the  understanding.  In  passing  from  the  form  to 
the  subject  of  the  present  work,  the  first  feeling  of  the 
reader  is  that  of  regret  that  so  much  power  should  be 
lavished  on  such  a  theme ;  and  surely,  if  Mr.  Prescott's 
narrative  had  ceased  with  the  mere  conquest  of  Peru,  we 
should  think  the  matter  unworthy  of  his  pen.  "We 
hardly  can  bring  to  mind  another  instance  of  such  an 
audacious  violation  of  all  principle,  moral  and  political, 
as  the  invasion  and  theft  of  Peru  by  the  Spaniards. 
The  enterprise  was  dignified  by  none  of  those  high 
thoughts  and  great  passions  which  often  lend  a  kind  of 
moral  interest  to  actions  which  justice  and  humanity 
must  still  condemn.  It  was  essentially  a  buccaneering 
expedition,  whose  naked  object  was  plunder  and  murder, 
without  any  pretence  of  bigotry  or  superstition  to  modify 
its  depravity ;  and  it  was  conducted  by  a  herd  of  r;xga- 
bonds  and  profligates,  who  broke  into  a  country  as  a 
oand  of  burglars  wou.d  break  into  a  dwelling.     Th* 


196  ilSSAYS    AND    KEVIEWS. 

olack  flag  of  the  pirate  \A^aves  over  tlie;  whole  immortal 
gang  whose  courageous  avarice  subverted  the  empire  ol 
the  Incas,  Their  fame  is  the  fame  of  infamy.  They 
would  occupy  no  place  in  the  memories  of  men,  if  their 
rascality  had  not  sounded  depths  of  wickedness  beyond 
the  common  experienc-e  of  men.  But,  considered  as 
a  piratical  expedition,  their  enterprise  was  successful. 
They  glutted  their  cruelty  and  rapacity  to  the  full, 
committing  more  murders,  producing  more  misery,  and 
obtaining  more  inney,  than  any  other  band  of  robbers 
that  ever  organized  for  plunder.  They  proved  them- 
selves master  workmen  in  the  ignoble  art  of  ruining 
nations,  and  were  eminently  successful  in  sowing  the 
seeds  of  ineradicable  hatred  against  the  whole  Spanish 
race  in  the  hearts  of  the  people  they  oppressed.  They 
were  the  enemies,  not  merely  of  the  Peruvians,  but  of 
human  society  itself,  —  violators  of  order,  of  justice,  of 
humanity,  of  every  principle  which  binds  communities 
together.  If  the  historian  had  left  the  subject  with  the 
triumph  of  these  valorous  outcasts  and  reprobates,  he 
might  have  had  much  to  interest  and  instruct  the  reader, 
in  exhibiting  the  meeting  of  two  dissimilar  races ;  in 
detailing  wild  and  stirring  deeds  of  adventure  performed 
amid  scenery  the  most  striking  and  sublime ;  and  in 
representing  the  worst  passions  of  the  human  heart  in 
unbridled  exercise,  restrained  neither  by  humanity  as  a 
sentiment,  nor  by  humanity  as  a  policy,  as  they  swept 
in  a  storm  of  fire  and  blood  over  the  doomed  empire  of 
Peru.  But  such  a  limitation  of  the  subject,  rich  though 
it  would  be  in  description  and  characterization,  would 
leave  a  painful  sense  of  moral  confusion  on  the  mind 
and  woula  lack  historical  and  artistical  completeness. 
Mr.  Prescott  has   therefore   done   well   in  devoting  bu 


PRESCOTT'S    conquest    of    PERU.  197 

Wilf  of  his  work  to  the  conquest,  and  in  proceeding  on 
to  narrate  the  bloody  feuds  of  the  conquerors,  and  the 
final  settlement  of  the  country  under  Gasca.  This 
extension  of  the  subject,  by  which  we  see  the  fearful 
retribution  which  followed  guilt,  and  the  natural  opera- 
tion of  those  eternal  laws  which  it  violated,  though  it 
occasions  a  greater  diversity  of  persons  and  events, 
really  furnishes  the  requisite  unity  of  the  work.  In  this 
respect  we  do  not  know  but  the  subject,  as  treated  by 
Mr.  Prescott,  has  more  true  historical  unity  than  the 
Conquest  of  Mexico;  for,  though  it  has  less  unity  of 
story,  it  has  a  wider  variety  of  incidents  and  characters 
included  under  a  stricter  unity  of  law. 

The  History  of  the  Conquest  of  Peru  is  introduced  by 
a  long  and  luminous  disseitation  on  Peruvian  civiliza- 
tion, which  contains  all  the  facts  which  are  known 
regarding  the  institutions  and  modes  of  existence  of  the 
people.  This  presencs  a  clear  view  of  the  national  life 
of  the  Peruvians,  comprehending  their  religion,  govern- 
ment, science,  letteis,  mechanical  arts,  and  industrial 
energy.  There  is  much  in  this  dissertation  to  startle 
our  imaginations  and  unsettle  our  theories.  We  are* 
accustomed  to  consider  governments  as  taking  their 
character  from  the  character  of  their  people,  —  as  being 
growths,  not  manufactures.  Even  in  most  despotisms 
the  tyrant  seems  but  the  nation  individualized.  In  this 
respect  there  is  little  difference  between  Austria  and  the 
United  States,  Turkey  and  France.  In  Peru,  however, 
we  have  the  spectacle  of  the  most  humane  and  perfect 
of  despotisms,  havmg  ito  source  in  the  government,  and 
working  down  into  tLe  masses,  moulding  their  character 
mto  new  fonns,  aad  effecting  a  radical  change  in  theii 
aature.     W  .,  perceive  savages  reduced  to  obedieai  and 


»98  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

unquestioning  subjects,  under  a  theocracy  which  had  as 
complete  possession  of  their  souls  as  of  their  persons. 
But  the  strangest  mystery  of  all  is,  that  the  Inca  despots 
appear  to  have  regulated  their  acts  by  fundamental  prin- 
ciples, and  to  have  shown  none  of  those  insane  caprices 
which  are  characteristic  of  absolute  sovereigns.  Adored 
as  gods,  and  implicitly  obeyed  as  governors,  they  still 
seem  to  have  made  the  physical  well-being  of  their  peo- 
ple and  the  development  of  the  resources  of  their  empire 
the  objects  of  their  government,  instead  of  gratifying 
their  self-will  at  the  expense  of  both.  Property  and 
money,  beggary  and  idleness,  were  alike  unknown  in 
Peru.  The  state  looked  out  that  every  person  labored, 
and  that  every  person  was  comfortable.  It  treated  its 
subjects  as  a  kind  master  treats  his  domestic  animals. 
Their  wills  and  understandings  were  not  recognized  as 
having  an  existence,  in  regard  to  matters  of  government; 
but  they  were  not  oppressed.  The  Incas  seem  to  have 
been  the  wisest  despots  the  world  has  seen,  in  forbearing 
to  exercise  capricious  power,  and  in  making  the  happi- 
ness of  their  people  the  policy  of  their  administration. 
Into  this  land,  thus  governed,  the  Spaniards  brought 
war,  poverty,  misery,  pestilence,  famine,  and  the  thing 
they  called  their  religion.  Their  object  from  the  begin- 
ning was  to  wring  from  the  wretched  inhabitants  all 
they  possessed,  and  to  doom  them  to  a  slavery  which 
differed  from  a  massacre  only  in  its  prolonged  suffering. 
They  had  not  even  the  wisdom  of  the  pagan  masters 
they  supplanted;  and,  in  the  folly  of  their  tyranny,  dried 
up  the  very  sources  of  wealth.  Their  policy  was  one 
nf  blunders  as  well  as  crimes.  They  might  have  consid 
e'ed  the  natives  as  oxen  and  horses,  but  their  stnpidit5 
c  nsAsted  in  exterminating  them  by  over  labor.     It  i? 


PRESCOTT'S   conquest    of   PERU.  199 

ijurious  that  in  all  the  arts  cf  government,  wliich  it  is 
equallj-  tne  interest  of  despots  and  democrats  to  practise, 
and  in  t'-hich  the  greatest  power  is  reconciled  with  the 
greatest  beneficence,  the  Incas  were  immeasurably  supe- 
rior to  the  Spaniards.  It  might  be  said  that  the  con- 
quest \^•as  the  victory  of  a  superior  over  an  inferior  race, 
and  that  the  natural  consequences  were  tyranny  and 
rapacity.  But  we  have  not  this  poor  excuse  for  Spanish 
Christianity  and  Spanish  civilization ;  for,  in  the  case  of 
Peru,  the  conquerors  ruined  a  country  which  had  been 
subdued  previously  by  the  Incas,  and  in  which  the  supe- 
rior race  had  used  their  power  to  civilize  the  savages 
they  conquered,  and  to  improve  their  condition.  In 
every  liffht  in  which  we  can  view  the  subject,  we  must 
be  compelled  to  award  the  Incas  wisdom  and  beneficence 
superior  to  the  Spaniards,  and  to  acknowledge  they 
approached  nearer  to  the  idea  of  Christian  civilization. 

Foremost  among  the  forcible  characters  with  whom 
Mr.  Prescott's  history  deals  are  Pizzaro  and  Gasca,  the 
representative  of  rapine  and  the  representative  of  law. 
Pizarro  is  one  of  those  marked  individuals,  branded  with 
the  hot  iron  of  universal  reprobation,  about  whom  there 
can  be  but  little  difTerence  of  opinion.  He  seems  to 
have  been  sent  into  the  world,  or,  at  least,  to  have  been 
sent  into  Peru,  in  order  to  render  -"epravity  despicable ; 
and  it  is  but  justice  to  say  that  he  appeared  to  feel  the 
dignity  of  his  great  mission,  and  doggedly  bent  himself  to 
its  performance.  He  had  in  large  measure  all  those  qual 
ities  which  awaken  admiration  for  the  world's  butchers, 
—  a  clear  head,  a  hard  heart,  forc3  of  will,  constancy  of 
purpose,  daring,  dauntless  courage,  complete  surrender 
of  his  mind  to  one  object,  —  but  they  were  all  developed 
in   connection   with    such    unutterable   baseness,  fraud. 


200  ESSAYS    AND   REVIEWS. 

nypocrisy,  and  ciuelty,  that  he  seems  the  rery  genius  of 
infamy  impersonated.  The  mind  instinctively  spuma 
him  as  a  cold,  calculating,  vulgar  villain,  without  any 
generous  enthusiasm,  without  any  lofty  purposes,  per- 
forming the  most  enormous  crimes  from  no  mixed 
motives,  and  in  his  combination  of  great  capacity  with 
cruelty,  treachery,  and  meanness,  never  appearing  in  a 
more  noble  shape  than  as  a  sort  of  monstrous  compound, 
made  up  of  Alva,  Arnold,  and  Scapin.  There  is  no 
danger  that  such  a  character  will  be  attractive  to  the 
imagination,  or  that  his  ignoble  depravity  will  win  for 
him,  out  of  the  jail  and  the  pirate-ship,  any  other  senti- 
ment than  contempt  or  abhorrence.  He  had  not  even 
that  honor  which  is  said  to  obtain  among  thieves,  and  as 
a  trickster  and  liar  occupies  a  peculiar  pinnacle  of  infa- 
my among  his  comrades  as  well  as  adversaries.  He  felt 
within  himself  a  superiority  to  all  scruples  of  shame  or 
conscience,  and  knew  that  he  could  outwit  the  worst  and 
wickedest  of  his  gang  at  their  own  weapons.  Some 
portion  of  his  courage  and  daring  may  have  sprung  from 
the  inward  conviction  that  he  could  be  placed  in  no  exi- 
gency from  which  he  could  not  extricate  himself  by 
crime.  He  obtained  an  empire  by  being  capable  of  an 
act  of  treachery  beyond  the  conceptions  of  any  of  its 
inhabitants,  and  then  attempted  to  cheat  his  accomplice 
out  of  his  portion  of  the  spoils  by  a  refinement  of  perfidy 
of  which  that  old  ruffian  had  never  dreamed.  He  war 
ever  sounding  new  depths  of  baseness,  and  originating 
unheard-of  schemes  of  rapine ;  and  his  companions  and 
followers  must  have  continually  felt,  with  deep  humility 
how  insignificant  were  their  most  strenuous  efforts  down 
ward,  compared  with  the  giant  leaps  of  the  trickster  Hei 
cules  at  their  head.     During  the  whole  narrative  0/  bi 


PEESCOTT'S   conquest    of    PERU.  201 

exploits  and  adventures,  we  anxiously  look  for  some  event 
in  which  his  great  energies  Avill  appear  connected  with 
s.ime  moderation  in  wickedness ;  but  we  are  continually 
disappointed.  When  he  marches  with  less  than  two 
hundred  men  right  into  the  heart  of  an  empire,  we 
expect  some  new  development  of  the  science  of  war  or 
diplomacy,  some  brilliant  achievement  of  arms  or  policj'o 
But  it  all  ends  in  the  old  story  of  massacre  and  pillage, 
supported  by  the  old  plea  of  necessity  and  prudence. 
We  continually  feel  that  all  he  does  would  be  infinitely 
clever  in  a  buccaneer,  a  highwayman,  or  an  incendiary, 
but  it  awakens  none  of  the  associations  connected  with  a 
conqueror.  Essentially  a  vulgar  villain,  he  has  incurred 
not  merely  the  condemnation  of  the  good  for  his  deprav- 
ities, but  is  visited  with  the  secret  hate  of  energetic 
wickedness  everywhere,  for  so  rudely  tearing  aside  the 
decent  drapery  of  sin,  and  depriving  vice  of  all  its  dig- 
nity. He  has  made  murder  and  robbery  on  a  gi-eat  scale 
an  everlasting  jeer  to  levity,  and  an  everlasting  stigma 
to  benevolence. 

With  all  this,  it  is  doubtful  if,  in  the  quality  of  cour- 
age, a  braver  man  than  Pizarro  ever  lived.  He  did  not 
know  fear.  Famine,  fatigue,  pestilence,  had  no  convinc- 
ing arguments  for  him.  He  feared  neither  nature,  man, 
nor  God,  but  pushed  doggedly  on  in  his  course  of  practi- 
cal atheism,  breasting  the  elements,  slaying  his  fellow- 
men,  unconcerned  about  the  future.  His  courage,  there- 
fore, great  as  it  was,  has  its  disgraceful  side ;  through 
this,  his  highest  quality,  the  insensibility  and  lowness 
of  k's  character  glare  like  an  imp  from  the  pit.  Could 
ive  occasionally  refer  his  crimes  to  weakness,  impulse,  oi 
t)igotry ;  could  we  sometimes  see  his  force  of  will  strug- 
^■ling  with  the  phantoms  of  conscience,  or  the  dread 


202  ESSAYS   AND   REVIEWS. 

monitions  of  religion ;  if  from  that  mass  of  bad  passions 
festering  at  his  heart  any  signs  of  a  soul  had  ever 
flashed  ,  if,  in  short,  he  had  sometimes,  for  variety  sake, 
performed  a  noble  or  refrained  from  a  wicked  action ; 
we  might  modify  a  little  the  contemptuous  horror  with 
which  we  view  his  courageous  baseness.  But,  as  it  is, 
he  stands  out  there  in  history,  naked  and  shivering  un- 
der the  pitiless  pelting  of  a  storm  of  execration,  not  as  a 
warrior  and  conqueror,  but  as  a  trickster,  traitor,  liar, 
thief,  incendiary,  murderer;  —  an  embodiment  of  the 
Newgate  Calendar,  sneaking  under  the  titles  of  mar- 
quess and  conquistador.  There  is,  however,  one  inci- 
dent connected  with  his  death  which  evidences  some 
sensibility.  It  cannot  be  said  of  him  that  he  died  and 
made  no  sign.  After  defending  himself,  with  his  accus- 
tomed valor,  against  his  assassins,  he  was  overpowered 
by  numbers,  and  received  several  terrible  wounds. 
'  Jesu  ! "  he  exclaimed,  in  that  dying  moment ;  and, 
"  tracing  a  cross  with  his  finger  on  the  bloody  floor,  he 
bent  down  his  head  to  kiss  it,  when  a  stroke,  more 
friendly  than  the  rest,  put  an  end  to  his  existence." 
There  is  something  sublime  in  this  flashing  forth  of  the 
religious  sentiment,  in  the  moment  of  death,  from  a 
nature  which  seemed  destitute  even  of  religious  bigotry 
and  superstition;  and  something  horrible  in  the  contem- 
plation of  the  only  religious  act  of  a  long  life  of  turbu- 
lence and  sin  being  balked  by  the  very  hand  which  slew 
his  body.  That  dark  spirit  passed  to  its  last  account 
with  its  hoarded  lusts  thick  upon  it. 

In  strong  contrast  with  Pizarro  and  the  other  Span- 
iards, and  the  only  honest  man  in  Mr.  Prescott's  vol- 
umes, is  Pedro  de  la  Gasca;  and  the  most  attractive 
portion  of  the  work  is  devoted  to  hira.     He  was  a  peac^ 


PRESCOTT'S   conquest   of    PERU.  5^03 

ix\  ecclesiastic,  sent  out  by  the  Spanish  go\ernment  to 
lecovor  Peru,  after  the  previous  viceroy,  Blasco  Nunez, 
had  b^en  deposed  and  slain,  in  an  insurrection  against 
the  ro)  al  authority,  headed  by  Gonzalo  Pizarro.  The 
country  was  entirely  in  the  latter's  hands,  and  the  people 
were  with  him.  Gasca  entered  the  country  without  any 
niiitary  force ;  proclaimed  pardon  for  all  past  offences ; 
announced  the  revocation  of  the  ordinances  which  had 
provoked  the  rebellion  ;  by  inimitable  coolness,  sagacity, 
and  energy,  succeeded  in  winning  over  some  of  the  most 
important  of  Gonzalo's  captains  ;  and,  in  a  comparatively 
short  time,  entirely  ruined  the  insurgents,  and  reinstated 
the  royal  authority  in  every  part  of  Peru.  The  whole 
work,  both  in  its  conception  and  direction,  was  exclu- 
sively his  own.  The  only  thing  that  Spain  gave  him 
was  absolute  authority,  and  he  conquered  Peru  by  the 
simple  force  and  wisdom  of  his  single  mind.  Such  a 
conquest  was  a  grander  exercise  of  genius  than  ever 
Cortes  or  Pizarro  displayed  ;  and  we  think  that,  next  to 
Columbus,  Gasca  takes  the  first  rank  among  the  great 
Spaniards  connected  with  the  discovery  and  colonization 
of  America.  His  genius  would  be  contested  by  some, 
because  he  was  one  of  those  rare  men  who  possess  great 
powers  in  such  perfect  harmony  with  great  virtues,  that 
the  might  of  their  nature  is  only  seen  in  the  effects  they 
produce.  To  the  vulgar  eye,  their  unobtrusive  excellence 
oi{3n  passes  for  commonplace.  All  repose  unbounded 
re.iance  in  their  integrity  and  intelligence,  and  they 
generally  succeed  in  everythin^  they  undertake,  but 
their  sagacious  virtue  is  rarely  honored  with  the  name 
of  genius.  They  are  called  men  of  moderation,  of  com- 
mon sense,  —  men  who  origuiate  nothing,  but  can  apply 
everything;   and  in  general  estimation  they  bear  about 


204  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

the  same  relation  to  narrower  and  intenser  natures  wliich 
light  bears  to  lightning.  Now,  it  seems  to  us  that  force 
and  insight  are  the  characteristics,  and  influence  the 
measure,  of  genius ;  and  where  we  see  great  results  pro- 
duced by  a  sagacious  proportioning  of  means  to  ends,  we 
infer  the  genius  of  their  author.  Gasca's  course,  indeed, 
strikes  us  more  by  its  intelligence  than  its  moral  eleva 
tion.  A  man  of  the  most  stainless  integrity,  he  had  still 
to  crush  a  rebellion,  and  restore  a  country  to  its  alle- 
giance to  the  Spanish  crown,  by  means  which  would  be 
operative  among  a  collection  of  depraved  soldiers  and 
petty  tyrants.  Superior  himself  to  vanity,  ambition, 
avarice,  fear,  and  treachery,  he  saw  perfectly  into  the 
characters  of  those  with  whom  he  was  to  deal,  under- 
stood the  nature  of  the  complaints  which  had  led  to  the 
rebellion,  and  understood  also  the  feeling  of  lingering 
loyalty  which  still  dwelt  in  the  fears  or  the  sentiments  of 
the  rebels.  He  first  gave  them  no  excuse  for  continuing 
adverse  to  the  crown,  by  abolishing  the  ordinances  which 
kad  caused  their  resistance ;  and  then  proffered  to  the 
followers  of  Gonzalo  those  inducements  which  he  knew 
would  be  operative  in  the  minds  of  knaves.  If  anything 
were  wanting  to  complete  our  contempt  of  the  Spaniards 
in  Peru,  we  have  it  in  the  detestable  treachery  of  the 
men  who  deserted  and  betrayed  Gonzalo,  after  having 
been  sworn  to  his  interests  and  enriched  by  h's  bounty. 

Gasca  knew  more  than  all  the  captains  and  intriguers 
in  Peru  put  together ;  and  by  virtue  of  this  knowledge 
he  gained  the  mastery  of  all.  The  only  man  who  could 
have  prevented  by  his  intelligence  the  destruction  of  the 
rebels  was  Gonzalo's  Mephistophelian  lieutenant,  Car- 
bajal ;  and  his  advice,  which  was  submission,  Gonzalo 
would  not  follow.     It  is  curious  to  contemplate  Gasca 


Mr. 


m. 


PRE&UOTT'S    COiNliUEST    OF    PEKP.  205 

Bmonj  the  profligate  soldiers  of  Peru,  if  it  were  only  to 
observe  the  instinctive  homage  which  vice  pays  t )  virtue. 
His  qualities,  liiie  diamonds,  derived  their  value  from 
their  rarity.  There  were  enough  courageous  stabbers 
and  reckless  intriguers  in  the  country  ;  there  was  no  lack 
of  gold,  and  silver,  and  merchandise;  but  truth  and 
honesty  were  scarce  and  inestimable.  The  usual  laws 
which  regulate  supply  and  demand  began  to  operate. 
Among  a  set  of  liars,  and  perjurers,  and  traitors,  and 
murderers,  a  true,  faithful,  loyal,  and  just  man,  was  at 
once  a  phenomenon  and  a  priceless  treasure.  At  the 
same  time,  he  comprehended  all  Peru  in  his  capacious 
mind,  and  he  ruled  it  because  he  knew  all  its  inhabitants 
better  than  they  knew  themselves.  Virtuous  himself,  all 
the  resources  and  tricks  of  vice  were  more  visible  to  tnn 
eye  than  if  he  had  mastered  them  by  experience.  No 
plotter,  who  had  passed  all  his  life  in  intrigue,  was  so 
sure  in  his  judgment  of  rascality,  so  certain  in  the  means 
he  took  to  circumvent  it.  He  was  one  of  those  wise 
men  who  read  things  in  their  principles,  and  he  therefore 
never  made  mistakes.  He  saw,  as  in  prophetic  vision, 
the  remotest  results  of  all  his  acts ;  and  accordingly, 
when  he  had  commenced  a  course  of  policy,  he  never 
wavered,  never  experienced  a  doubt  of  his  success, 
because  he  knew  what  must  happen  from  the  nature  of 
things.  This  insight  into  the  principles  of  events,  this 
settled  faith  based  on  the  clearest  intelligence,  is  the 
crowning  glory  of  the  genius  of  action.  Gasca,  in  Peru, 
evinced  a  capacity  for  government  which  the  complex 
affairs  of  a  European  empire  would  not  have  exhausted. 
In  order  to  do  full  justice  to  Mr.  Prescott's  work,  we 
should  present  to  our  readers  some  extracts  illustrating 
ts  excellences  of  u  irration  and  description ;  but  this  our 


206  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

limits  will  not  permit.  The  mind  of  the  author  yields 
itself  with  a  beautiful  readiness  to  the  inspiration  of  his 
subject,  and  he  leads  the  reader  along  with  him  through 
every  scene  of  beauty  and  grandeur  in  which  the  stirring 
adventures  he  narrates  are  placed.  We  would  refer  par- 
ticularly to  the  description  of  the  passage  of  the  Andes, 
as  an  evidence  of  the  accuracy  with  which  pictures  of 
scenery  maybe  impressed  on  the  historian's  imagination, 
and,  through  him,  upon  the  reader's,  without  the  original 
objects  ever  having  been  present  to  the  eye  of  either. 
The  account  of  the  massacre  at  Caxamalca  is  also 
exceedingly  vivid  and  true,  and  is  probably  one  of  the 
most  splendid  passages  in  Mr.  Prescott's  works.  After 
this  bloody,  treacherous,  and  cowardly  murder,  Pizarrc 
addressed  his  troops  before  they  retired  for  the  night. 
When  he  had  ascertained  that  not  a  man  was  wounded, 
"he  bade  them  offer  up  thanksgivings  to  Providence  for 
so  great  a  miracle  —  without  its  care  they  could  never 
have  prevailed  so  easily  over  the  host  of  their  enemies  ; 
and  he  trusted  their  lives  had  been  reserved  for  still 
greater  things."  No  invective,  though  steeped  in  fire 
and  gall,  is  calculated  to  excite  so  much  detestation  as 
this  simple  statement  of  the  murderer's  blasphemous 
hypocrisy.  It  is  one  of  those  monstrosities  of  canting 
guilt, "  on  which  a  fiend  might  make  an  epigram." 

It  is  curious  to  observe,  in  the  tangled  web  of  intrigue, 
treachery,  and  murder,  which  meets  us  in  the  history  of 
the  conquest,  how  the  moral  laws  which  were  violated 
by  the  conquerors  avenged  themselves.  Murder  gener 
ated  murder,  and  misery  brought  forth  misery.  First 
Atahualpa  was  murdered  by  a  legal  farce  got  up  bj 
Alraagro  and  Pizarro ;  then  Almagro  was  murde;ed  ir 
the  same  way  by  Pizarro  ;  Pizarro,  in  his  turc  was  assas- 


PRESCOTT's    conquest    Or    i  r.KU.  207 

bftiated  by  the  followers  of  Almagro's  son,  Diegc  and 
the  latter  fell  in  battle  with  the  Spanish  authorities,  under 
Vaca  de  Castro.  Hernando  Pizarro  passed  the  largest 
portion  of  his  lit'e  in  a  Spanish  prison  ;  Juan,  the  best  of 
the  brothers,  was  lulled  by  the  Peruvians  ;  and  Gonzalo, 
a  man  of  some  generosity  and  openness  of  mind,  and  of 
a  chivalrous  temper,  after  having  arrived  by  rebellion  to 
the  supreme  command  in  Peru,  was  betrayed  by  his  fob 
lowers,  and  executed  as  a  traitor.  In  these  various  feuds, 
most  of  the  original  gang  of  pirates  who  conquered  the 
country  either  fell  in  battle  or  were  executed  on  the  scaf- 
fold ;  their  stolen  property  passed  into  the  possession  of 
others  ;  and  even  the  few  who  did  n-^t  die  a  violent  death 
were  under  the  control  of  two  masters  —  gambling  and 
licentiousness  —  which  gave  them  poverty  and  disease 
for  wages.  As  their  crimes  brought  no  good  to  them- 
selves, so,  also,  they  laid  Peru  under  a  curse  from  which 
she  has  not  yet  recovered.  The  seeds  of  a  new  empire 
can  never  be  sown  by  the  outcasts  of  an  old  one ;  and 
those  who  look  upon  a  country  with  the  eyes  of  a  pick- 
pocket will  soon  ruin  everything  in  it  which  nature  will 
allow  human  folly  and  wickedness  to  destroy.  The  his- 
tory of  the  conquest  of  Peru,  as  presented  in  the  vivid 
pages  of  Mr.  Prescott,  is  capable  of  conveying  many  les- 
sons on  the  retribution  which  follows  conquest  and  rapine, 
which  late  events  in  our  own  history  show  that  we  have 
incompletely  learned.  It  would  seem  that  every  man  of 
?ommon  intelligence  and  common  patriotism  would  rather 
see  the  power  of  his  country  palsied,  than  made  the 
instrument  of  crime.  Such  a  misuse  of  strength  never 
aas  been  and  never  can  be  successful.  The  poisoned 
chalice  will  inevitably  be  returned  to  our  own  lips,  for  the 
vorld  is  ruled  by  divine,  not  demoniacal  agencies.    Look 


208  ESSAYS    AND   REVIEWS. 

at  the  subject  in  what  lic^ht  we  may,  from  the  view  of 
religion  or  the  view  of  common  sense,  we  must  still  admit 
that  we  cannot  balk  or  elude  those  eternal  laws  of  the 
universe,  which  deny  lasting  power  to  the  energies  of 
robbery  and  the  schemes  of  rapine.  The  laws  of  God, 
in  their  slow,  silent,  and  terrible  operation,  will  still 
move  tranquilly  on,  turning  all  our  glory  to  shame,  all 
our  strength  to  weakness ;  though  we,  in  the  mad  exult- 
ation of  our  guilt,  turn  night  into  day  with  our  bonfires, 
and  lend  the  skies  with  our  huzzas. 


SHAKSPEARE'S   CRITICS.* 

Those  who  consider  the  science  of  criticism  as  nothing 
more  than  a  collection  of  arbitrary  rules,  and  the  art  of 
criticism  but  their  dextrous  or  declamatory  application, 
rejoice  in  a  system  of  admirable  simplicity  and  barren 
results.  It  has  the  advantage  of  judging  everything  and 
accounting  for  nothing,  thus  gratifying  the  pride  of  intel- 
lect without  enjoining  any  intellectual  exertion.  By  a 
steady  adherence  to  its  doctrines,  a  dunce  may  exalt 
himself  to  a  pinnacle  of  judgment,  from  which  the  first 
authors  of  the  world  appear  as  splendid  madmen,  whose 
enormous  writhings  and  contortions,  as  they  occasionally 
blunder  into  grace  and  grandeur  of  motion,  show  an 
undisciplined  strength,  which  would,  if  subjected  to  rule, 
produce  great  effects,  A  Bond-street  exquisite  compla- 
cently surveying  a  thunder-scarred  Titan  through  an 
opera-glass,  is  but  a  type  of  a  Grub-street  critic  meas- 
uring a  Milton  or  a  Shakspeare  with  his  three-foot  rule. 

But  the  golden  period  of  this  kind  of  criticism,  when 
mediocrity  sat  cross-legged  on  the  body  of  genius,  and 

*  Shakspeare's  Plays,  with  his  Life.  Illustrated  with  many  hundred 
Wood-cuts,  executed  by  H.  W.  Hewel,  after  designs  by  Kenny  Meadows, 
Harvey,  and  others.  Edited  by  Gulian  C.  Verplanck,  LL.D.,  with  Critical 
Introductions,  Notes,  etc..  Original  and  Selected.  New  York:  Harper  & 
Brothers.    3  vols.    8vo. 

Lectures  on  Shakspeare.  By  H.  N.  Hudson.  New  York :  Baker  &  Scrib 
aer.    2  vols.     12mo.  —  Norlh  American  Review,  July,  1848. 

VOL.  n.  14 


210  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

sagely  delivered  its  oracular  nonentities,  has  happily 
passed  away.  The  fat  bishop  of  the  elder  time  who 
discovered  that  the  Paradise  Lost  was  a  licentious  and 
blasphemous  poem,  and  the  lean  authorling  who  first 
informed  the  world  that  Shakspeare  was  an  inspired 
idiot,  have  both  departed  into  the  void  inane.  The 
period  has  gone  by  when  France  could  dismiss  Shak- 
speare from  the  company  of  Corneille  and  Racine  as  a 
clever  barbarian,  or  England  herself  rate  him  as  a  sort 
of  miraculous  monstrosity,  —  neither  so  elegant  as  Wal- 
ler, nor  so  correct  as  Mr.  Pope.  The  old  antithesis 
between  genius  and  judgment,  taste  and  creative  power, 
which  has  sparkled  and  rung  in  so  many  knowing  sen- 
tences, has  now  lost  most  of  its  point,  and  is  enjoyed  only 
as  a  gem  from  the  antique.  It  is  no  longer  the  fashion 
for  beauty  to  be  tested  by  elegance,  or  truth  by  mechani- 
cal correctness,  or  nature  by  convention,  or  art  by  arti- 
fice. Mr.  Prettyman,  with  his  conceited  lisp,  and  Sir 
Artegal's  Talus,  with  his  iron  flail,  have  both  been 
banished  from  the  gardens  of  the  Hesperides. 

This  substitution  of  a  philosophy  of  criticism  for  an 
anarchy  of  dogmas  is  especially  seen  in  the  recent  edi- 
tions of  Shakspeare.  Fifty  years  ago,  he  was  compared, 
in  reference  to  liis  commentators,  to  Actseon  hunted  to 
death  by  his  own  dogs.  But  the  present  generation  has 
witnessed  a  marked  change  in  the  spirit  and  principles 
of  the  criticism  by  which  he  has  been  tried.  Could  all 
those  Sir  Francis  Wrongheads  of  the  last  century,  who 
undertook  to  patronize  Shakspeare  as  a  wild,  unregulated 
genius,  and  kindly  volunteered  their  praise  on  the  score 
of  his  great  faults  being  balanced  by  great  beauties,  sud- 
denly start  up  in  the  present  age,  we  may  well  imagine 
with  what  a  stare  of  blank  amazement  they  would  observe 


SMJLiCSPEARE's    CRITICS.  211 

his  elevation  to  the  throne  of  art.  It  might  reas(  nably 
be  supposed  that  old  John  Dennis  and  Mr.  Rymer  would 
retire  in  disgust  to  their  tombs,  rather  than  accept  the 
boon  of  life  in  a  generation  devoted  to  so  Egyptian  an 
adoration  of  deformities.  The  difference  between  an 
old  critic  picking  flaws  in  Shakspeare's  expression  of 
passion,  and  a  modern  critic  raving  about  the  artistic 
significance  of  Shakspeare's  puns,  indicates  the  extremes 
of  criticism  through  which  the  "  myriad-minded "  has 
passed.  At  present  there  appears  to  be  no  danger  that 
his  intellectual  supremacy  will  be  questioned.  The 
antiquary  who  ventures  to  stammer  a  little  in  the  old 
jargon  is  quietly  dropped  by  good  society ;  the  sciolist 
who  blurts  out  a  blunt  objection  is  vehemently  hissed 
into  non-exi§tence.  Schlegel's  prediction,  that  Shak- 
speare's fame  for  centuries  to  come  would  "  continue  to 
gather  strength,  like  an  Alpine  avalanche,  at  every 
moment  of  its  progress,"  seems  to  be  in  the  process  of 
verification  ;  for  with  every  new  edition  and  criticism  the 
giant  dilates  into  larger  and  larger  dimensions.  He  has 
invaded  France ;  he  has  conquered  Germany.  The 
principalities  and  powers  of  literature  find  no  safety  but 
in  the  acknowledgment  of  his  supremacy.  To  the  old 
republic  of  letters  he  comes  as  the  intellectual  Caesar, 
who  is  to  establish  a  universal  dominion.  The  different 
orders  of  the  literary  state,  far  from  opposing  his  preten- 
sions, are  engaged  in  hymning  his  divinity.  Here  and 
there  some  lean  Cassius  mutters  treason  against  the  god, 
complains  that  he  bestrides  the  world  like  a  Colossus, 
and  leaves  other  poets  little  to  do  but  peep  about  for 
dishonorable  graves;  but  all  peevish  exceptions  are 
drowned  in  the  universal  shout  which  lifts  hij  name  to 
the  skies. 


212  ESSAYS   AND   REVIEWS. 

"Nothing  can  cover  his  high  fame  but  heaven  ; 
No  pyramids  set  off  his  memories 
But  the  eternal  substance  of  his  greatness." 

This  idolatry  of  Shakspeare  is  partly  the  cause  and 
partly  the  effect  of  a  new  school  of  criticism,  which 
assumes  to  judge  works  of  art  after  a  new  code  of  princi- 
ples. The  mistake  which  the  old  order  of  critics  made 
consisted  in  overlooking  the  doctrine  of  vital  powers. 
They  judged  the  form  of  Shakspeare's  works  by  certain 
external  rules,  before  they  had  interpreted  the  inward 
life  which  shaped  the  form.  Shakspeare's  genius  was 
always  felt  as  supreme  above  others,  because  its  reality 
and  force  could  not  be  resisted  ;  but  the  criticism  which 
should  have  made  it  understood  as  well  as  felt,  which 
should  have  accounted  for  its  effects,  pursued  exactly  the 
opposite  course.  Instead  of  attempting  to  translate  it  to 
the  understanding  by  evolving  its  principles,  it  placed  it 
in  antagonism  to  certain  notions  in  the  understanding, 
which  were  unfounded  in  the  nature  of  things.  Because 
genius  has  its  own  laws,  it  is  not  therefore  to  be  con- 
sidered lawless;  yet  such  was  the  judgment  passed  upon 
Shakspeare's  genius  by  men  who,  substituting  dogmatism 
for  analysis,  did  not  possess  the  first  requisite  of  a  critic, 
that  of  understanding  the  thing  criticized.  The  conse- 
quence was,  an  absurd  opposition  between  judgment  and 
feeling,  taste  and  genius.  Men  were  compelled  to  admire 
what  they  were  taught  to  condemn.  We  perceive  the 
effect  of  this  even  in  a  man  of  such  comprehensive  sym- 
pathies as  Dryden.  Nothing  can  be  more  contemptible 
than  Dryden's  criticism  on  Shakspeare's  art;  yet  when 
he  abandoned  his  rules,  and  trusted  to  his  own  conceptions 
of  excellence,  —  when  he  ceased  to  judge  as  a  critic  and 
spoke  as  a  poet,  —  nothing  can  excel  the  warmth  or  the 


shakspeare's  critics.  213 

accuracy  of  his  rhapsodies.  Eliminate  from  his  cele- 
brated passage  on  Shakspeare  every  term  which  may  h/t 
called  critical,  and  there  is  nothing  in  English  literature, 
from  Ben  Jonson  to  Coleridge,  which  contains  so  true  a 
representation  of  Shakspeare's  mind. 

Now,  the  critical  revolution  which  has  taken  place  in 
the  present  century  does  not  pretend  so  much  to  increase 
our  sympathy  with  Shakspeare  as  to  increase  our  knowl- 
edge of  him ;  and  accordingly  we  perceive  its  influence 
not  merely  in  the  opinions  of  men  of  imagination  and 
sensibility,  but  in  those  of  critics  chiefly  distinguished 
for  sense  and  understanding.  The  revolution,  being  one 
of  principles,  has  affected  the  judgments  of  writers  who 
bear,  in  mind  and  character,  the  same  relative  position 
to  the  present  period  which  the  old  critics  bore  to  their 
time.  It  would  be  unjust  to  compare  Schlegel  and  Cole- 
ridge with  Johnson  and  Malone,  as  indicating  a  change  in 
the  general  scope  and  spirit  of  literary  judgments ;  but  if 
we  compare  Johnson  with  Hallam,  we  are  still  conscious 
of  a  great  and  essential  difference,  —  a  difference  not  so 
much  in  the  faculties  employed  as  in  the  principles  by 
which  they  are  guided.  This  is  so  true,  that  the  mean- 
ing of  judgment  and  taste,  so  far  as  the  results  obtained 
by  their  exercise  are  concerned,  has  completely  altered. 
When  Dr.  Johnson  said  of  Cymbeline,  that  to  notice  its 
defects  and  improbabilities  in  detail  were  "  to  waste  criti- 
cism on  unresisting  imbecility,"  he  proved  himself  a  per- 
son of  great  judgment,  according  to  the  principles  of  the 
eighteenth  century ;  but  a  man  who  hazarded  such  an 
opinion  now  would  be  set  down,  we  will  not  say  as  an 
ignoramus,  but  as  one  whose  taste  was  under  the  domin- 
ion of  individual  caprice,  and  whose  judgment  was 
wholly  deficient  in  correctness. 


?14  ESSAYS  AIND    REVIEWS. 

The  two  works  named  at  the  head  of  the  present 
article,  Mr.  Verplanck's  edition  of  Shakspeare,  and  Mr. 
Hudson's  Lectures,  are  a  fair  indication  of  the  progress 
which  criticism  has  made  within  a  century.  Neither 
could  have  been  produced  fifty  years  ago,  for  the  materi- 
als were  wanting.  Mr.  Verplanck  had  the  wide  field  of 
English  antiquarian,  verbal,  and  sesthetical  criticism 
open  to  him,  and  he  has  swept  over  the  whole  domain. 
He  has  especially  availed  himself  of  the  researches  of 
various  commentators,  without,  however,  adopting  then 
insufferable  prolixity  of  statement.  His  edition,  thougti 
it  has  the  character  of  a  rifacimento,  still  combines  a 
greater  number  of  positive  merits,  and  is  calculated  for  a 
wider  variety  of  readers,  than  any  with  which  we  are 
acquainted ;  but  it  is  so  in  virtue  of  the  judgment  the 
editor  has  evinced  in  selecting  the  peculiar  excellences 
of  many  editions,  and  in  avoiding  the  peculiar  faults  of 
each.  He  had  at  his  command  a  singularly  rich  collec- 
tion of  materials,  embodying  the  results  of  a  century  of 
research,  and  containing  the  separate  items  of  a  good 
edition  floating  about  in  an  ocean  of  words.  There  was, 
therefore,  a  constant  strain  upon  his  judgment  and  taste 
in  the  mere  task  of  selection  and  compression.  Antiqua- 
rians and  commentators  are  apt  unconsciously  to  rate 
their  discoveries  and  illustrations  as  of  more  value  than 
the  things  to  which  they  refer ;  and  Shakspeare  espec- 
ially has  been  victimized  by  a  class  of  lynx-eyed  dog- 
matists, always  quarrelling  among  themselves,  and  each 
claiming  for  the  morsels  of  useful  knowledge  he  has  con- 
tributed a  ludicrous  importance. 

Mr.  Verplanck  has  shown  much  strength  and  catho- 
licity of  mind,  in  not  being  embarrassed  by  the  varying 
ipmions  of  this  army  of  acute  triflers,  at  the  same  time 


SHAKSPE are's    CRITICS.  215, 

iiiat  he  has  largely  availed  himself  of  their  labors.  In 
the  notes  to  each  play ;  in  tracing  out  the  sources,  his- 
torical and  romantic,  of  the  plots  ;  in  the  bibliographical 
discussion  as  to  the  order  in  which  the  plays  were 
printed,  he  blends  his  own  learning  very  gracefully  with 
what  he  has  condensed  from  others.  The  text  appears 
to  be  the  portion  of  the  work  on  which  he  has  expended 
the  greatest  care,  and  is  the  result  of  a  most  cautious 
comparison,  word  by  word,  of  the  original  quarto  editions 
of  the  various  plays  with  the  original  folio  published  by 
Heminge  and  Condell,  and  of  both  with  the  editions  of 
Malone,  Collier,  and  Knight.  Though,  from  the  nature 
of  the  case,  the  text  of  no  one  editor  can  be  so  perfect  as 
to  settle  all  disputes  regarding  particular  passages,  we 
think  it  must  be  conceded  to  Mr.  Verplanck  that  he  has 
executed  this  difficult  and  delicate  task  with  a  great  deal 
of  acuteness  and  sagacity,  and  displayed  a  much  clearer 
i/isight  into  the  spirit  and  form  of  Shakspeare's  style 
than  a  large  majority  of  those  who  have  undertaken  the 
drudgery  of  its  arrangement. 

But  it  is  as  a  critic,  rather  than  as  an  editor,  that  Mr. 
Verplanck  claims  our  attention  here.  His  introductions 
to  the  plays  are  really  additions  to  the  higher  Shaks- 
pearian  criticism,  not  so  much  for  any  peculiar  felicity 
in  the  analysis  of  character,  as  in  the  view,  partly 
bibliographical,  partly  philosophical,  which  he  takes  of 
the  gradual  development  of  Shakspeare's  mind  and  the 
•lifferent  stages  of  its  growth.  It  is  the  first  connected 
attempt  to  trace  out  Shakspeare's  intellectual  history 
and  character,  gathering,  to  use  Mr.  Verplanck's  own 
words,  "  from  various,  and  sometimes  slight  and  circum- 
stantial, or  collateral,  points  of  testimony,  the  order  and 
»viccessiou  of  his  works,  assigning,  so  far  as  possible,  each 


216  ESSAYS    AND   REVIEWS. 

one  to  its  probable  epoch,  notino^  the  variations  or  difler- 
ences  of  style  and  of  versification  between  them,  and 
in  some  cases  (as  in  Romeo  and  Juliet,  Henry  Fifth, 
and  Hamlet)  the  alterations  and  improvements  of  the 
same  play  by  the  author  himself,  in  the  progress  of  his 
taste  and  experience ;  thus  following  out,  through  each 
successive  change,  the  luxuriant  growth  of  his  poetic 
faculty  and  his  comic  power,  and  finally,  the  still  nobler 
expansion  of  the  moral  wisdom,  the  majestic  contem- 
plation, the  terrible  energy,  the  matchless  fusion  of  the 
impassioned  with  the  philosophical,  that  distinguished 
the  matured  mind  of  the  author  of  Hamlet,  of  Lear,  and 
of  Macbeth."  In  this  portion  of  his  labors,  Mr.  Ver- 
planck  has  shown  a  solidity  and  independence  of  judg- 
ment, and  a  power  of  clearly  appreciating  almost  every 
opinion  from  which  he  dissents,  which  give  to  his  own 
views  the  fairness  and  weight  of  judicial  decisions.  His 
defects  as  a  critic  are  principally  those  which  come  from 
the  absence  in  part  of  sensitive  sympathies,  and  of  the 
power  of  sharp,  minute,  exhaustive  analysis.  He  is 
of  the  school  of  Hallam,  a  school  in  which  judgment  and 
generalization  rule  with  such  despotic  control,  that  the 
heart  and  imagination  hardly  have  fair  play,  and  strongly 
marked  individualities  too  often  subside  into  correct  gen- 
eralities. 

Before  hazarding  any  remarks  on  Mr.  Hudson's  strik- 
ing Lectures,  it  may  not  be  out  of  place  to  refer  to  a  few 
of  the  philosophical  critics  who  have  preceded  him,  in 
order  that  his  station  among  them  may  be  calculated 
with  some  degree  of  accuracy.  After  a  careful  perusal 
of  his  work,  we  have  been  forced  to  the  conclusion,  that, 
m  spite  of  its  faults,  there  is  no  single  critical  pro^ction 
on  Shakspeare  which  equals  it  in  completeness  and  force 


siiakspeare's  critics.  217 

of  thought  in  the  examination  of  individual  characters. 
It  is  a  work  which  no  person  could  have  written  without 
devoting  himself  with  rare  constancy  to  one  object,  and 
without  availing  himself  to  some  extent  of  (he  labors 
of  his  predecessors  in  the  same  department  of  thought. 
The  materials  for  a  critical  view  of  Shakspeare  are  widely 
scattered.  Almost  every  eminent  poet  and  critic  of  Ger- 
many and  England  has,  within  the  last  half-century, 
recorded  his  impressions  of  the  world's  master  mind ; 
and  perhaps  in  the  stray  observations  of  Goethe  we  have 
glances  into  the  nature  of  Shakspeare's  genius  as  pro- 
found and  accurate  as  ever  were  won  by  the  intensest 
toil  of  inspection.  Hallam,  Carlyle,  Campbell,  and  many 
others,  have  presented  striking  criticisms  on  the  plays, 
or  thrown  out  valuable  suggestions  respecting  the  char- 
acters, in  works  not  exclusively  devoted  to  Shakspeare. 
Hazlitt,  Mrs.  Jameson,  and  Ulrici,  have  produced  sep- 
arate volumes  on  the  subject.  Of  the  professed  critics, 
however,  Schlegel  and  Coleridge,  as  they  are  first  in 
point  of  time,  appear  to  us  first  in  respect  to  excellence. 
They  were,  to  a  great  extent,  the  originators  of  the  school 
of  philosophical  criticism,  and  we  find  in  them  a  sys- 
tematic statement  of  its  principles,  in  their  application  to 
all  forms  of  imaginative  literature. 

The  history  of  the  variations  of  criticism  with  regard 
to  Shakspeare  would  involve  a  consideration  of  all  critical 
theories,  from  those  founded  on  individual  impressions  to 
those  based  on  an  observation  of  the  essential  laws  of 
mental  growth  and  production.  These  tvA'o  extremes  of 
criticism,  as  different  as  subject  and  object,  are  often  con- 
founded,—  a  work  of  art  as  it  affects  a  particular  mind 
being  commonly  a  convertible  phrase  for  a  work  of  art 
BS  it  is  in  itself.     The  middle  ground  between  the  two 


218  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWb. 

has  tiiost  obtained  among  those  who  are  called  men  of 
culture.  This  consists  in  testing  the  value  of  all  works 
of  art  by  their  conformity  to  certain  rules  generalized 
from  the  productions  of  a  particular  school,  —  as  if  the 
romantic  drama,  as  seen  in  Shakspeare,  should  be  judged 
by  the  principles  of  the  classic  drama,  as  seen  in  Sopho- 
cles. It  is  evident,  we  think,  that  if  criticism  be  a 
science,  if  it  assume  to  convey  any  real  knowledge,  it 
deals  not  with  individual  impressions  or  arbitrary  rules, 
but  with  laws ;  and  its  progress  will  be  determined  by 
Its  success  in  employing  a  right  method  to  discover  the 
laws  of  the  objects  to  which  it  refers.  As  the  philoso- 
pher is  content  to  investigate  and  establish  the  laws  of 
the  human  mind  and  the  phenomena  of  nature,  leaving 
to  the  sceptic  or  the  idealist  the  luxury  of  denying  their 
existence  or  supplying  better  from  his  own  resources, 
so  the  critic  is  bound  to  pursue  a  similar  method  with 
regard  to  a  work  of  art,  and  to  interpret,  if  he  can,  its 
inward  meaning  and  significance.  This,  at  least,  is  the 
process  in  all  other  sciences.  If  a  plant,  insect,  fish, 
or  other  animal,  is  to  undergo  a  scientific  examination, 
a  savan  is  not  welcomed  with  a  shower  of  honorary 
degrees  because  he  has  felicitously  ridiculed  its  external 
form,  or  shown  its  want  of  agreement  with  some  other 
natural  object,  but  because  he  has  investigated  its  inward 
mechanism,  indicated  its  purpose,  and  shown  that  its 
form  is  physiognomical  of  its  peculiar  life.  Now,  we 
think  that  Hamlet  and  Lear  are  as  worthy  of  this  toler- 
ant ti?atment  as  a  bird  or  a  fish ;  at  least,  we  are  confi- 
dent that  no  scientific  knowledge  of  either  can  be  obtained 
in  any  other  way.  Because  the  principle  implies  that  a 
true  creation  of  the  intellect  has  thus  an  independent 
existence  and  merit  of  its  own,  and  is  to  be  judged  by  its 


shakspeare's  critics.  219 

»wn  laws,  or  its  own  fitness  to  serve  th'  purposes  of  its 
creation,  it  does  not  thence  follow,  thu.,  its  relative  merit, 
as  compaieu  with  other  works  of  art,  is  altogether  put 
6ejrond  tho  jurisdiction  of  criticism.  Because  a  rose 
may  be  considered  a  finer  flower  than  a  violet,  we  are 
not  bound  to  test  the  beauty  of  one  by  its  agreement  with 
the  other.  At  least,  in  regard  to  the  productions  of  the 
intellect,  there  can  be  no  accurate  classification,  no  settle- 
ment of  their  position  in  the  sliding-scale  of  excellence 
or  greatness,  without  understanding  the  spirit  and  life 
of  each. 

Now,  the  great  merit  of  Schlegel  consisted  in  discard- 
ing from  his  system  all  quibbles  respecting  superficial 
differences  in  the  form  of  works  of  genius,  and  looking 
directly  at  the  inward  life  which  animated  and  shaped 
the  form.  His  view  of  Shakspcare,  which  did  so  much 
to  revolutionize  the  tone  of  English  criticism,  is  con- 
tained in  his  Lectures  on  Dramatic  Art  and  Literature, 
delivered  in  Vienna,  in  the  spring  of  1S08.  Had  he 
written  nothing  else,  this  work  would  be  sufficient  to 
place  him  among  the  greatest  critics  of  the  world.  It 
not  only  develops  a  system  of  principles  of  uncommon 
reach  and  depth,  but  contains  a  review  of  the  dramatists 
and  dramatic  literature  of  Greece,  Eome,  France,  Italy, 
England,  Spain,  and  Germany,  grappling  sturdily  with 
all  the  vexed  questions  of  dramatic  art  which  start  up  in 
each  stage  of  the  inquiry.  Almost  for  the  first  time,  we 
find,  in  his  work,  a  critic  who  profoundly  appreciates  at 
once  the  drama  of  Greece,  England,  and  Spain,  and  does 
It  in  virtue  of  following  out  the  central  principle  of  a 
comprehensive  critical  system.  Sweeping  over  the  whole 
field  of  dramatic  literature,  he  detects,  in  the  variety  of 
Its  kinds,  in   its  metempsychosis  through  various  forma. 


220  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

the  true  character  of  each  period  of  its  devplopment,  and 
considers  the  genius  of  each  period  in  relation  to  the 
materials  it  assinnilated  and  the  purposes  it  served.  He 
.'!  an  ardent  and  intelligent  admirer  of  ^schylus  and 
Sophocles,  and  for  that  very  reason  contemns  all  attempts 
to  reproduce  them  in  other  ages.  As  he  really  under- 
stands the  great  Greek  dramatists,  he  sees  the  excellence 
of  Shakspeare  and  Calderon  in  their  departure  from  the 
Greek  models.  Starting  with  a  distinct  idea  of  the  dif- 
ference between  mechanical  regularity  and  organic  form 
he  is  at  once  a  remorseless  critic  of  mediocrity  and  an 
interpretative  critic  of  genius ;  for,  by  demanding  that  a 
work  of  art,  however  modest  its  pretensions,  shall  be  an 
organic  whole  with  a  central  principle  of  life,  he  discards 
from  his  sympathies  the  productions  of  the  most  accom- 
plished artisans  of  letters,  and  the  most  ingenious 
combinations  of  inanimate  parts.  His  work  is  the  first 
attempt  at  viewing  the  dramatic  literature  of  the  world 
under  the  light  of  a  principle  broad  enough  to  include 
every  variety  of  intellectual  excellence,  and  overlooking 
nothing  informed  with  a  living  soul. 

Had  the  author  been  entirely  free  from  individual  bias, 
and  had  he  possessed  also  the  faculty  of  contracting  his 
vision  with  as  much  facility  as  he  dilated  it,  his  work 
would  hardly  have  left  much  for  later  critics  to  perform  , 
but  we  perceive,  here  and  there,  the  effect  upon  his  mind 
of  the  literary  controversies  in  wdiich  he  had  been  en- 
gaged, and  some  of  his  individual  judgments  are  contrary 
to  the  catholicity  of  his  principles.  Besides,  as  his  com- 
prehensiveness was  not  accompanied  by  corresponding 
acuteness,  he  not  unfrequently  becomes  the  dupe  of  hia 
own  refinements,  especially  in  criticizing  the  details  of  a 
work  of  art ;    for  we  imagine  a  truly  acute  man  is  not  sc 


shakspeare's  critics.  221 

likaly  to  be  deceived  in  a  criticism,  of  particulars,  as  a 
Eomprehensive  one  is,  who  affects  subtiity  in  order  to 
bring  the  details  of  a  thing  into  harmony  with  his 
general  conception  In  Schlegel's  celebrated  view  of 
Shakspeare's  mind  and  art,  we  perceive  the  influence  of 
this  defect.  Nothing  can  be  more  lucid  than  his  expo- 
sition of  the  general  character  and  scope  of  Shakspeare's 
genius,  an  1  of  the  principles  by  which  it  should  be 
judged ;  but,  when  he  comes  to  review  the  particular 
plays,  his  very  determination  to  find  excellence  in  every- 
thing often  leads  to  his  missing  the  greatest  excellence. 
He  is  so  occupied  in  tracing  out  the  main  design  of  the 
piece,  and  exhibiting  the  pervading  unity  through  all  the 
variety  of  parts,  that  he  comparatively  overlooks  the 
characterization.  Now,  the  fundamental  idea,  the  ulti- 
mate principle,  the  living  root,  of  one  of  Shakspeare's 
plays,  can  be  reached  only  by  an  intense  conception  or 
exhaustive  analysis  of  the  characters, —  for  these  give  to 
the  main  design  its  peculiar  Shakspearian  coloring  and 
significance ;  and  to  exhibit  the  dependence  of  the  parts 
on  the  main  design,  without  fully  appreciating  the  parts, 
results  in  reducing  the  whole  to  something  little  above 
commonplace.  Every  attempt  to  follow  a  purely  syn- 
thetic process  in  an  exposition  of  Shakspeare's  plays  has 
been  a  failure,  because  it  requires  a  mind  capable  of 
reproducing  Shakspeare's  own  conceptions,  and  grasping 
ivith  one  effort  of  imagination  a  Shakspearian  whole. 
To  exhibit  a  tragedy  like  that  of  Hamlet  as  it  grew  up 
in  the  creator's  mind,  indicating  the  exact  period  when 
the  different  characters  necessarily  branched  off  from  the 
trunk  in  obedience  to  the  law  at  its  root,  would  seem  to 
require  a  genius  such  as  has  not  yet  taken  criticism  for  a 
?ocation,     Goethe  seeans  to  have  had  some  inward  idea 


222  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

of  the  secret  of  Shakspeare's  processes,  but  the  scattered 
observations  in  which  he  hinted  his  knowledge  are  but 
stammering  expressions  of  his  conception. 

The  leading  merit  of  Schlegel,  as  we  have  already 
said,  is  rather  in  breadth  of  view  than  in  any  surpassing 
felicity  of  individual  criticism ;  and  in  regard  to  Shak 
speare,  we  think  him  inferior  to  Coleridge  in  strong  and 
vivid  conception,  and  in  the  power  of  flashing  a  great 
impression  of  a  character  or  incident  upon  the  mind, 
through  modes  of  expression  which  only  a  poet  can  com- 
mand. With  all  his  wilfulness  and  vagaries,  Coleridge 
possessed,  as  a  critic,  not  only  grand  glimpses  of  the 
inmost  spirit  of  a  work  of  art,  but  a  remarkable  faculty 
of  intellectual  analysis  ;  and  as  he  had  made  Shakspeare 
and  his  creations  the  subject  of  profound  and  contem- 
plative study,  he  was  eminently  calculated  for  the  office 
of  his  interpreter,  both  to  the  understanding  and  the 
imagination  of  his  countrymen.  But  he  lacked  the 
talent  of  writing  clearly  in  prose.  A  series  of  concep- 
tions as  they  stood  in  his  mind  never  found  adequate 
expression  on  his  page.  He  has  sentences  of  wonder- 
ful beauty,  distinctness,  and  force,  embodying  separate 
thoughts  of  the  greatest  originality  and  depth ;  but  there 
is  little  connection  or  orderly  arrangement  of  matter  in 
his  prose  works.  He  offends  against  the  first  principle 
of  his  own  critical  code,  being  essentially  a  writer  of 
parts,  not  of  wholes,  —  of  fragments,  not  of  systems.  In 
respect  to  principles,  he  is  probably  the  first  critic  of  the 
century ;  in  respect  to  criticisms,  he  occupies  a  much 
lower  rank.  His  fragments  on  Shakspeare  are  of  great 
value,  but  their  value  consists  chiefly  in  their  suggestive- 
aess,  in  the  bright  hints  they  have  aflbrded  to  those  who 


SHAKSFEARE'S    CRITICS.  223 

have  had  the  sagacity  to  plant  them  in  their  t/vvn  ;nindsi 
and  allowed  them  to  germinate. 

Hazlitt's  work  on  the  Characters  of  Shakspeare's 
Plays  is  a  medley  of  great  and  small  matters,  ranging 
from  criticism  to  vituperation,  from  the  exliibition  of 
Shakspeare  to  the  exhibition  of  himself.  Hazlitt's  sense 
of  his  own  individuality  was  so  strong,  that  he  could  not 
altogether  forget  it  in  the  contemplation  of  the  most 
objective  of  poets ;  and  though  his  volume  bears  on  every 
page  the  marks  of  his  acute  and  penetrating  intellect,  and 
is  animated  by  bursts  of  his  captivating  but  distempered 
eloquence,  the  general  impression  it  leaves  on  the  mind 
is  unsatisfactorJ^  It  is  supposed  that  many  of  the  finest 
observations  in  his  work  were  gathered  in  conversations 
with  Coleridge. 

Mrs.  Jameson's  volume  on  the  Female  Characters  is 
a  most  eloquent  and  passionate  representation  of  Shak- 
speare's women,  and  in  many  respects  is  an  important 
contribution  to  critical  literature.  Its  defects  are  so  cov- 
ered up  in  the  brilliancy  and  buoyancy  of  its  style,  that 
they  are  likely  to  escape  notice.  In  the  beautiful  tumult 
of  bright  words,  and  the  uniform  glare  of  the  represent- 
ation, we  are  apt  to  overlook  the  lack  of  close  and  search- 
ing examination.  Fine  and  true  as  are  many  of  her 
remarks,  and  valuable  as  is  much  of  the  information  she 
dares  to  give,  she  still  is  too  ap:  to  blend  her  own  indi- 
viduality with  the  individualities  she  is  describing,  and 
to  think  she  is  comprehending  Shakspeare  when  Shak- 
speare is  simply  comprehending  her.  We  feei  it  difficult 
to  say  thus  much  in  abatement  of  the  praise  cheer- 
fully awarded  to  one  of  the  most  fascinating  books  in  the 
language,  but  vve  hardly  think  that  any  judicious  admirer 
»f  Mrs.  Jameson  can  suppose  that  Shakspeare's  heroines 


224  ESSAYS   AND   REVIEWS. 

could  pass  through  the  medium  of  her  mind  without  a 
modification  of  their  essential  character. 

But  exceeding  all  books  on  the  great  dramatist  in  bulk 
and  pretension  is  Ulrici's  big  octavo  on  Shakspeare'a 
Dramatic  Art.  This  is  German  in  the  worst  sense  of 
the  word,  being  so  strange  a  conglomeration  of  sense  and 
fanaticism,  of  sagacity  and  dulness,  that  it  is  impossible 
to  call  it  either  excellent  or  execrable.  It  is  learned, 
ingenious,  acute,  often  eloquent,  often  profound,  gives 
evidence  of  careful  research  and  deep  thought,  and 
is  worthy  to  be  read  by  every  man  who  can  muster 
courage  to  read  it ;  but  it  hardly  conveys  any  impression 
of  Shakspeare  at  all.  The  author  regards  his  system 
first,  himself  second,  and  his  nominal  subject  last.  He 
takes  as  high  ground  for  Shakspeare's  genius  as  can  pos- 
sibly be  assumed,  and  then  impresses  on  his  whole  works 
the  peculiar  form  of  his  own  dominant  dogma.  Shak 
speare,  according  to  him,  consciously  or  unconsciously, 
wrote  in  perfect  harmony  with  the  truth  of  things,  and 
the  "  ground-idea  "  of  every  one  of  his  plays  is  a  theo- 
logical doctrine.  When  he  comes  to  develop  this  general 
principle,  we  find  that  he  is  not  taking  Shakspeare  as  an 
object  of  critical  investigation,  but  as  an  illustration  of 
his  own  philosophical  and  theological  opinions ;  and  the 
"  thousand-souled  "  Shakspeare,  the  "  oceanic  mind," 
dwindles  down  into  a  mere  auxiliary  of  the  "  one-idea'd  " 
Ulrici.  The  characters  are  not  analyzed,  and  are  viewed 
only  in  reference  to  the  axiomatic  moral  they  are  said  to 
convey.  The  great  "ground-idea"  of  the  book  may  be 
said  to  consist  in  the  assumption  that  Shakspeare  wrote 
his  plays  to  illustrate  the  five  points  of  Calvinism.  We 
do  not  say  that  these  poirts  cannot  be  found  in  Shak- 
speare,   for  almost   every    subjective    mind   finds   there 


SHAiCSPEARE  S    CRITICS. 


22b 


exactly  what  it  brings ;  but  it  is  somewhat  ridiculous  for 
a  person  to  suppose  that  ho  has  mensured  the  genius  of 
the  world's  master  dramatist,  when  he  has  merely  given 
the  measure  of  himself.  Ulrici's  ingenuity  and  learning 
are  sufficient  to  enable  him  to  make  out  a  plausible  case ; 
but  he  appears  to  us  as  far  from  Shalcspeare  in  spirit  as 
old  Rymer  himself. 

Ulrici  is  an  indication  of  the  extravagances  to  which 
the  principles  of  an  interpretative  criticism  may  seem  to 
lead,  when  they  are  employed  as  a  mere  cover  under 
which  to  smuggle  individual  impressions.  In  the  Lec- 
tures of  Mr.  Hudson,  we  perceive  that  a  right  applica- 
tion of  the  same  principles  may  result  in  a  positive  addi- 
tion to  knowledge.  Although  the  American  critic  has 
his  own  ec;entricities  of  opinion  and  expression,  and  dis- 
plays occasionally  a  disposition  to  fight  his  own  battles 
under  Shakspeare's  banner,  he  still  contrives  generally  to 
maintain  a  marked  line  of  distinction  between  his  own 
impressions  and  the  laws  of  the  objects  he  investigates. 
His  work,  apart  from  its  independent  merits  of  compo- 
sition and  criticism,  stands  in  intimate  relation  to  the 
productions  of  his  predecessors,  especially  to  those  of 
Schlegel  and  Coleridge.  Possessing  in  a  considerable 
degree  the  power  of  learning  from  other  minds  without 
becoming  their  vassal,  Mr.  Hudson's  Lectures  are  the 
result  of  a  study  both  of  Shakspeare  and  his  critics.  By 
thus  embodying  in  his  own  work  the  most  valuable  por- 
tion of  former  Shakspearian  criticism,  he  is  enabled  to 
advance  beyond  it.  The  leading  characteristic  of  the 
philosophical  critics,  that  of  excessive  generalization, 
which  led  them  comparatively  to  neglect  the  analysis  of 
Shakspeare's  characters,  he  has  unconsciously  avoided, 
from  the  instinctive  antipathy  of  his  mind  to  all  general 

roL.  II.  15 


226  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

ities  not  vitally  connected  with  objects.  Though  his  pas- 
sionate dislike  of  abstractions  deprives  his  Lectures  of 
that  appearance  of  comprehensiveness  which  comes  from 
a  suppression,  rather  than  an  inclusion,  of  details,  ana 
though  it  is  sometimes  felt  as  a  real  defect,  still  it  is  that 
quaUty  of  his  mind  which  has  enabled  him  to  succeed  in 
the  most  neglected  department  of  Shakspearian  criticism, 
that  of  evolving  the  elements  and  laws  of  the  individual 
characters,  and  indicating  their  application  to  practical 
jfe. 

Before,  however,  we  attempt  a  consideration  of  Mr. 
Hudson's  positive  merits  as  a  thinker  and  critic,  we  must 
notice  some  obvious  peculiarities  of  his  character  and 
style.  These  can  hardly  be  allowed  to  elude  criticism 
on  the  ground  of  their  genuineness,  for  we  are  by  no 
means  inclined  to  give  the  critic  the  advantage  of  being 
judged  in  accordance  with  the  philosophical  principles  he 
may  apply  to  poets.  The  first  impression  which  a  reader 
obtains  of  Mr.  Hudson  is  undoubtedly  that  of  a  powerful 
but  somewhat  perverse  writer,  gifted  with  more  than  an 
ordinary  degree  of  combativeness,  and  battling  for  opin- 
ions with  all  the  energy  of  a  man  engaged  in  a  personal 
conflict.  Possessing  a  strong  and  sturdy  understanding, 
quick  and  deep  sympathies,  an  affluent  fancy,  and  a  biting 
wit,  with  a  large  command  of  the  most  vigorous  and 
apposite  language,  and  a  perfect  fearlessness  as  to  whorls 
or  what  he  hits,  he  stalks  into  the  company  of  decorous 
critics  and  prim  essayists  with  his  Shakspearian  thesis  in 
his  hand,  and,  on  the  slightest  intimation  of  a  desire  for 
controversy,  incontinently  rains  down  on  his  opponents  a 
storm  of  propositions,  arguments  and  epigrams,  from 
which  they  are  glad  to  escape  by  a  precipitate  flight. 
'S^othing  can  be  more  unphilosophical  than  Mr.  Hudson's 


SHAKSPEJiRE's    CRITICS.  227 

mannet,  and  it  is  in  strange  contrast  with  the  polite 
sneer,  and  somewhat  prim  and  reserved  contempt,  with 
which  Schlegel  dismisses  an  opponent,  or  the  exclama- 
tory regret  with  which  Coleridge  mourns  the  narrowness 
of  a  critic's  creed.  Alike  in  narrative,  in  the  exposition 
of  principles,  in  the  analysis  of  characters,  in  side 
thrusts  at  popular  foibles  and  delusions,  Mr.  Hudson's 
style  is  characterized  by  intensity  and  intellectual  fierce- 
ness. His  only  mode  of  conquering  an  adversary  is  to 
overthrow  him,  and  when  he  has  him  down  he  ends  the 
matter  by  pommelling  him  to  death.  He  enters  the  lists 
as  Shakspeare's  champion;  and  woe  to  the  unlucky  wight, 
no  matter  how  accredited  his  reputation  as  an  author, 
who  has  at  any  time  dropped  incautious  expressions 
raising  a  doubt  of  Shakspeare's  supremacy.  Thus,  Mr. 
Hume's  unfortunate  remark  respecting  the  Elizabethan 
age,  as  regards  the  correctness  and  taste  of  its  literature, 
affords  the  occasion  of  a  furious  attack  on  that  acutest  of 
metaphysicians,  in  which  every  weak  point  in  his  mind 
is  pricked  and  pierced  with  the  most  remorseless  cer- 
tainty of  aim,  until  he  expires  at  last  in  an  agony  of 
epigrams.  Some  miserable  heretics  against  the  true 
critical  faith,  whose  stupidity  and  insignificance  preserve 
them  from  being  roasted  in  the  slow  fires  of  wit,  but  who 
have  been  lifted  into  some  celebrity  by  the  enormity  of 
their  crimes  in  attempting  to  improve  Shakspeare  down 
to  popular  taste,  are  loaded  with  nicknames  and  pelted 
with  scornful  epithets.  Nahum  Tate,  one  of  these  ple- 
beian butchers  of  the  poet's  plots  and  style,  is  hooted  at 
as  a ''wooden-headed  man,"  and  his  improved  Lear  is 
kicked  from  sentence  to  sentence  down  a  truculent  para- 
graph, until  at  last  our  sympathies  plead  for  poor  Nahum 
on  the  ground  of  the  wrong  iriplied  in  cruelty  to  am- 


228  ESSAYS   AND   REVIEWS. 

mals.  This  feeling,  that  meddling  with  Shakspeare's 
plays  is  literally  sacrilege,  and  objecting  to  them  is  auda- 
cious heresy,  indicates  how  thorough  is  our  author's 
worship  of  his  subject,  and  how  intensely  he  has  realized 
it  to  his  mind  as  a  living  reality. 

The  style  of  Mr.  Hudson  is  a  fair  image  of  his  intel- 
lect and  character,  admitting  considerable  variety  of 
expression,  but  stamped  throughout  with  strongly  marked 
and  peculiar  traits.  It  is  the  vehicle,  not  merely  of  anal- 
ysis and  reflection,  but  of  wit,  satire,  scorn,  passion,  and 
fancy.  Often,  indeed,  the  former  qualities  find  their 
raciest  expression  under  the  latter,  and  the  reader  is 
favored  with  a  chain  of  logical  deduction  the  links  of 
which  are  epigrams,  or  with  a  theory  impaled  on  a  scalpel 
festooned  with  imagery.  It  would  be  difficult  to  describe 
the  style,  for  it  varies  with  the  writer's  moods  and  the 
subjects  treated,  and  is  restrained  neither  by  self-imposed 
nor  rhetorical  rules.  Now  bristling  with  antithesis,  now 
flashing  with  satire,  —  at  one  time  melting  into  softness 
and  sweetness  of  diction,  at  another  bringing  out  the 
thought  with  a  jerk  in  a  perfect  verbal  spasm,  —  now 
sharp,  crisp,  biting,  scornfully  defiant,  each  short  sentenco 
exploding  into  sparkles,  and  then  again  rolling  on  in  a 
grand  succession  of  harmonious  periods,  —  it  always  has 
the  merit  of  clearness  and  precision,  aiad  in  all  its  alter- 
nations, from  scientific  terms  which  approach  the  obscure 
to  homely  phrases  which  fall  plump  into  the  inelegant, 
there  is  little  chance  of  missing  the  meaning.  It  is  a 
style  full  of  the  energy  of  life,  but  a  life  which  is  some- 
limes  galvanized  into  spasmodic  strength. 

The  author's  command  of  language  is  despotic,  and 
like  all  despots  he  not  unfrequently  exercises  his  powel 
capriciously.     This  is  shown  principally  in  extravagance 


shakspeare's  critics  229 

of  statement  and  in  repetition  of  thuughi.  The  first  is, 
to  a  great  extent,  the  result  of  his  greatest  merit,  for 
extravagance  in  expression  comes  as  often  from  intense 
as  from  feeble  conception,  resulting  in  one  case  from  the 
boiling  over  of  the  mind  in  vehement  language,  in  the 
excitement  produced  by  proximity  to  a  great  object 
which  awakens  all  its  powers,  and  in  the  other  being 
merely  an  attempt  to  make  words  perform  the  office  both 
of  thinking  and  expression.  Mr.-  Hudson,  except,  per- 
haps, in  his  analysis  of  Shakspeare's  female  characters, 
does  not  give  to  his  subjects  that  remoteness  which 
admits  of  their  calm  contemplation,  but  writes  close  to 
the  vital  truth  of  the  thing  he  describes,  with  that  tin- 
gling of  the  blood  which  such  an  immediate  contact  with 
the  soul  of  passion  and  the  life  of  thought  produces  and 
prolongs.  To  dive  into  the  depths  of  Hamlet's  mind,  or 
to  follow  step  by  step  the  j..,«gress  of  crime  in  the  heart 
and  imagination  of  Macbeth,  or  to  pass  resolutely  into 
that  awful  region  of  passion  whose  terrible  gusts  rend 
the  frames  of  OtheKo  and  Lear,  is  not  a  thing  to  be  done 
or  recorded  with  an  even  pulse  and  a  cool  brain.  We 
accordingly  think  that,  in  such  instances  as  these,  Mr. 
Hudson's  extravagance  of  expression,  though  not  always 
strictly  accurate  as  to  thought,  is  eminently  true  to  feeling, 
and  will  be  more  successful  in  stamping  on  the  reader's 
mind  a  living  impression  of  the  characters  than  if  he  had 
weighed  his  words  with  more  scrupulous  care.  But  he 
has  an  exaggeration  of  statement  of  another  kind,  which 
consists  in  lifting  persons  into  the  perfection  of  prin- 
ciples, and  of  confounding  possibilities  with  realities. 
Thus,  in  the  view  of  Shakcpeare's  mind,  in  many  re- 
spects a  masterly  specimen  of  thought  and  composition, 
he  makes   Shakspeare  to  be  what   he   really  only  ap« 


2IJ0  ESSAYS    AND    REVir.WS. 

proached,  and  seems  to  forget  that,  after  all  which  can  be 
said  of  hin  as  a  great  man,  with  large  powers  harmoni- 
ously combmed,  he  was  still  a  man,  and  not  humanity. 
This  extravagance  we  know  is  simply  the  extravagance 
of  epigram,  aiming  to  suggest  the  truth  more  vividly  by 
exaggerating  it ;  but  an  analyst  so  close,  fierce,  and  sub- 
tile, as  Mr.  Hudson,  with  his  felicity  and  pride  in  limita- 
tions, has  hardly  a  right  to  expect  that  his  readers  or 
critics  will  allow  him  ti  claim  exemption  from  the  very 
letter  of  the  law. 

The  other  fault  of  Mr.  Hudson,  that  of  repetition,  is 
common  to  him  with  almost  all  lecturers.  He  has  less  of 
it  than  Cousin  and  Villemain,  in  whose  discourses  the 
leading  ideas  are  made  to  perform  an  amount  of  labor, 
in  the  mere  changing  of  dress  and  attitude,  which  at 
last  wears  and  wastes  them  away.  The  repetition  we 
observe  in  Mr.  Hudson  results  from  an  occasional  fanati- 
cism of  acuteness,  which  is  sceptical  of  the  ability  of  a 
proposition  to  convey  a  complete  idea,  and  is  eager  to 
express  all  its  elements.  Though  he  embodies  the  most 
refined  distinctions  of  analysis  with  uncommon  skill  and 
verbal  certainty,  he  lingers  occasionally  too  long  on  one 
subtilty,  presents  it  in  a  variety  of  attitudes  through  a 
succession  of  brilliant  sentences,  and,  indeed,  indulges 
his  power  of  condensed  expression  at  the  expense  of  real 
condensation  of  thought.  Thus,  an  acute  or  profound 
ODservation  is  often  first  stated  in  language  whose  mean- 
ing Ignorance  itself  cannot  miss,  then  embodied  in  an 
image,  then  again  forced  into  an  antithetic  or  epigram- 
matic form,  and  afterwards,  perhaps,  slyly  made  to  per- 
form the  office  of  sting  to  a  gibe,  until,  in  the  end,  it  is 
hammered  out  of  the  head  m  the  very  attempt  tc 
hammer  it  in.     This  characteristic   is  more  especiall} 


SHAKSPEARE  S     CRITICS.  231 

sbservable  in  the  earlier  lectures,  in  wl  icli,  being  com- 
pelled to  piesent  the  profoundest  principles  of  philosophi- 
cal criticism  in  a  popular  form,  his  eagerness  to  make 
them  readily  apprehended  leads  him  to  push  them  into 
every  minor  avenue  to  the  mind,  as  well  as  to  send  them 
on  the  direct  road  to  the  understanding. 

We  have  one  more  cause  of  quarrel  with  Mr.  Hudson 
before  we  proceed  to  the  positive  merits  of  his  book.  I* 
IS  so  rare  to  have  a  critic  before  our  court  of  literary 
justice,  that  when  we  do,  it  is  proper  to  make  him  feel 
how  "  sharper  than  a  serpent's  tooth"  is  the  bite  of 
criticism  to  an  author.  Our  present  objection  refers  tc 
the  explosions  of  Mr.  Hudson's  individuality  in  the 
guerilla  warfare  which  he  wages  against  the  reformers 
and  transcendentalists  of  our  enlightened  age.  This 
bush-fighting  along  the  main  road  of  the  text,  though  ii 
lends  raciness  to  the  style,  and  will  doubtless  delight 
many  who  have  no  appreciation  of  his  great  merits  as  a 
thinker  and  critic,  is  often  carried  to  the  extreme  limits 
of  a  reviewer's  forbearance.  Many  of  his  remarks  are 
unquestionably  acute  and  just,  and  as  far  as  they  ridicule 
strutting  pretension,  presumptuous  imbecility,  and  com 
placent  ignorance, — as  far  as  they  unmask  the  "  mora! 
bullies  and  virtuous  braggadocios  "  who  are  engaged  in 
beatirig  up  a  little  conscience  into  a  great  deal  of  ethical 
and  political  froth,  or  probe  sharply  those  small  coteries 
of  elegant  souls,  where 

*"  Sclf-inspecV^on  sucks  his  little  thumb," — 

we  have  little  to  say  m  objection,  except  that  his  digres- 
sions somewhat  break  the  unity  of  hi?  discourse  ;  but  he 
himself  is  sometimes  forced  by  his  contempt  or  indigna- 
Uon  to  the  opposite  extreme,  and  to  class,  in  ap]\earince 


232  ESSAYS    AND   REVIEWS. 

at  least,  the  principles  of  civil  and  religious  liberty  undei 
the  general  head  of  conceit  and  spiritual  pride,  and  to 
exalt  conformity  to  church  and  state  into  the  perfection 
of  wisdom  and  piety.  This  seems  to  us  "  more  excel 
lent  foolery  than  the  other ;"  and  though  we  woujd  not 
directly  charge  it  upon  Mr.  Hudson,  there  are  rash  and 
peevish  expressions  in  his  book,  which  might  be  forced 
to  bear  such  a  construction. 

We  have  thus  noticed  at  some  length  Mr.  Hudson's 
peculiarities  of  manner,  not  because  they  affect  the  in- 
tegrity of  his  interpretation  of  objects,  or  seriously 
detract  from  the  intrinsic  value  of  his  work,  but  because 
they  are  calculated  to  raise  false  issues  regarding  its 
merits,  apart  from  the  shock  they  sometimes  give  to 
good  taste.  Admitting  everything  which  can  be  said 
against  it  on  these  points,  it  has  still  solid  excellences  of 
thought  and  style  which  require  a  different  treatment. 
We  shall,  therefore,  now  attempt  to  indicate  its  leading 
characteristics  as  a  work  of  philosophical  criticism. 

Mr.  Hudson  has  thrown  the  whole  strength  of  his 
mind  into  the  analysis  of  the  plays,  especially  the  char- 
acters. In  this  respect,  Schlegel,  Coleridge  and  Hazlitt, 
are  imperfect  and  meagre  in  comparison  with  him, 
though  for  his  own  success  he  is  considerably  indebted  to 
their  previous  labors.  He  has  practically  established  one 
important  fact  in  regard  to  Shakspeare's  characters,  that 
each  is  not  only  an  individual,  but  a  whole  class  individ- 
ualized ;  and  that,  as  the  ideal  or  common  h|p.d  of  a 
class,  it  is  not  only  admirable  as  a  character,  but  indicates 
the  tendencies  of  a  large  body  of  men.  So  intense  is 
the  individuality  of  each  character,  that  it  is  only  when 
a  powerful  analysis  has  resolved  it  into  its  elements  that 
ve  perceive  the  vast  amount  of  thought  and  observation 


SHAKSPEARE  S     CRITICS.  233 

it  embodies.  This  analysis,  applied  to  all  his  characters, 
conveys  a  living  idea  of  the  amazing  force,  clearness, 
and  grasp  of  Shakspeare's  mind,  in  its  relative  compre- 
hension of  the  actual  and  possible  of  human  nature,  and, 
better  than  all  vague  panegyric,  demonstrates  his  unap- 
proachable greatness.  For  the  first  time  in  the  history 
of  the  intellect,  we  find  in  him  a  mind  whose  creative 
vitality  is  commensurate  with  its  comprehension  ;  reach- 
ing down  into  the  heart  of  things  with  as  much  facility 
as  it  stretches  over  and  around  them ;  seizing,  at  once, 
the  elements  of  human  nature,  and  generalizing  the 
world  of  men,  interpreting  the  latter  by  light  derived 
from  the  former,  and  by  the  harmonious  action  of  his 
powers  of  conception,  combination,  and  observation, 
enabled  to  express  mankind  in  men,  and  womankind  in 
women.  When  to  this  we  add  the  capacity  of  combin- 
ing the  elements  of  humanity  into  new  and  strange 
forms  of  being,  which  are  neither  natural  nor  unnatural, 
but  supernatural,  we  have  an  object  for  contemplation 
which  criticism  cannot  exhaust,  and  which  it  has  hardly 
begun  to  conceive.  The  wonder  is,  not  that  Shakspeare 
could  have  created  so  many  characters,  but  that  he  could 
have  comprehended  a  world  in  so  few ;  that  he  was  so 
fare  a  combination  of  the  poet  and  philosopher  as  to 
grasp  truth  in  the  concrete,  and  embody  the  most 
gigantic  generalizations  of  the  intellect  in  living  forms. 
Were  his  characters  merely  individuals,  or  merely  per- 
sonified ideas,  they  would  not  contain  within  themselves 
a  fraction  of  their  present  applicability  to  life.  As  it  is, 
he  has  occupied  almost  eveiy  department  of  thought. 
Goethe  has  testified  that  he  found  it  difficult  to  avoid  an 
tfnitation  or  repetition  of  Shakspeare,  whp.n  he  strove 


234  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

most  conscientiously  to  express  himself  or  his  own  crea- 
tions. 

In  this  analytic  portion  of  Iiis  labors,  Mr.  Hudson  has 
opened  and  worked  many  rich  veins  of  thought,  and 
indicated  practically  what  is  meant  by  Shakspeare's 
opulence  and  breadth  of  mind.  If,  however,  he  had 
nierely  analyzed  the  characters,  and  exhibited  their  wealth 
of  suggestiveness,  he  would  have  performed  but  one  im- 
portant portion  of  a  critic's  duty.  He  has  not  onty  done 
this,  but  has  forcibly  conceived  the  characters  as  indi- 
viduals, and  happily  blends  their  personal  traits  with 
their  general  significance,  in  reproducing  them  to  the 
imagination  and  understanding.  Shakspeare's  plays 
constitute  a  kind  of  world  in  themselves,  and  no  person 
of  deep  and  delicate  sympathies  can  dwell  in  it  long 
without  giving  a  positive  existence  to  its  men  and  wo- 
men, and  referring  to  Hamlet  and  FalstafF  and  Cordelia 
as  though  they  were  the  companions  of  his  eye  as  well 
as  mmd.  This  is  especially  true  of  Mr.  Hudson.  He 
appears  as  the  lover  or  enemy  of  many  characters  whom 
Shakspeare  is  content  to  represent ;  and  considers  what 
they  are  and  what  they  do  as  subjects  of  approval  or 
condemnation,  as  much  as  if  they  were  veritable  person- 
ages in  actual  life.  This  intense  realization  is,  perhaps, 
the  greatest  charm  of  his  book,  though  at  the  same  time 
it  is  one  of  the  disturbing  forces  in  his  style,  and  the 
occasion  of  many  a  gust  of  intellectual  wrath.  It  gives 
a  certain  heartiness  to  his  most  abstract  discussions  of 
principles,  and  through  its  influence  the  peculiar  Shak- 
spearian  quality  of  each  character  rarely  escapes  hi« 
imagination  when  it  eludes  his  analysis.  Indeed,  in 
this  interchange  of  the  synthetic  and  analytic  processes 
of  criticism,  his  various  powers  appear  in  all  their  force 


shakspeare's  critics.  235 

and  refinement,  for  he  commonly  cortrive?  to  leave  a 
concrete  impression  of  a  character  upon  the  mind  after 
he  has  subjected  its  elements  to  the  minutest  scrutiny 
The  result  of  his  examination  of  each  play  is  a  view  of 
its  plot  and  design  through  the  characters,  and  he  thue 
lifts  it  into  a  Shakspearian  region  of  thought,  action,  and 
being.  The  mistake  of  the  German  critics,  as  we  have 
remarked,  consists  in  bringing  down  the  play  into  a 
comparatively  commonplace  region  of  existence,  by  over- 
looking the  modification  which  everything  receives  from 
Shakspeare's  own  individuality,  and  from  not  adequately 
perceiving  that  it  is  the  characters  which  lend  greatne'JS 
to  the  action  and  plan  of  the  piece. 

In  exhibiting  the  mutual  dependence  of  the  characters, 
and  their  connection  with  the  drama  in  which  they 
appear,  Mr.  Hudson  is  very  successful.  He  clearly 
understands  that  individuals  in  Shakspeare,  as  in  life, 
are  developed  by  mutual  contact  and  collision ;  and 
accordingly  he  views  each  person  in  his  relations,  and 
interprets  his  character  in  tKe  light  cast  upon  it  from  all 
parts  of  the  play.  For  instance,  in  the  masterly  analy- 
sis of  lago,  he  sometimes  discards  the  little  demon's  own 
self-communing's  as  furnishinsr  evidence  of  his  motives, 
on  the  ground  of  his  being  a  measureless  liar  ;  and  indi- 
cates, in  many  instances,  the  s'lreness  and  subtilty  of 
Shakspeare's  knowledge  of  human  nature,  in  making  his 
deceivers  thus  practise  deception  upon  themselves,  and 
lie  even  in  soliloquies.  In  this  portion  of  his  labors,  Mr. 
Hudson  displays  a  delicacy  of  thought,  a  capacity  to 
follow  the  minutest  and  most  complex  operations  of  the 
mind,  and  occasionally  a  microscopic  nicety  of  vision, 
which  would  not  discredit  the  raost  accompHshed  meta- 
physician. 


236  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  decide  whether  our  critic  has 
been  more  successful  in  delineating  Skakspeare's  men  or 
women.     Certainly  no  reader,  who  judged  of  the  scope 
of  his  powers  by  their  exercise  in  controversy,  or  in  grap- 
pling sturdily  with  some  knotty  difficulty  which  had  to 
be  removed  by  main  strength,  would  give  him  credit  for 
the  delicacy  and  clearness  of  his  perception  of  moral 
beauty,  and  the  refinements  of  the  affections.     The  ex- 
quisite felicity  with  which  he  touches  without  profanely 
handling  the  most  ideal  of  Shakspeare's  heroines,  and 
his  constant  sense  of  a  certain  sacredness  attaching  tc 
the  sex,  are  in  strange  contrast,  not  only  to  his  rough- 
and-tumble  mode  of  upsetting  a  critical  dunce,  but  to  hi? 
close  and  fierce   exposition  of  an  lago  and  a  Goneri] 
His  delineations  of  Rosalind,  Beatrice,  Viola,  Perdifc 
Juliet,  Cordelia,  Desdemona,  Hermione,  not  to  mentio. 
others,  are  conceived  with  great  subtilty  of  sentimeni 
and  imagination,  and  have  an  indefinable  charm  caught 
from  an  intense  sympathy  with  their  natures.     These 
ideal  creations  of  the  great  poet,  more  truly  and  vitally 
natural  than  most  of  the  Avomen  of  actual  life,  he  has 
contrived  to  reproduce  whole  upon  his  page,  in  the  clear 
sweetness  and  beautiful  dignity  of  their  characters,  and 
has  been  especially  successful  in  setting  forth  their  in- 
nate, unconscious  purity  of  soul,  shining  through  the 
most  equivocal  circumstances,  and  lending  a  glory  to 
the  simplest  acts  and  expressions.     It  would  be  vain  to 
look  elsewhere  for  so  complete  a  demonstration  of  Shak- 
speare's unrivalled  success  in  exhibiting  womankind  in 
women,  or  a  more  thorough  exposure  of  the  fallacy  tha 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher  excelled  him  in  female  characters. 
No  extracts  would  convey  a  full  impression  of  the  felicity 
:^^ith  which  Mr.  Hudson  has  entered  into  the  spirit  of 


shakspeare's  critics.  !*17 

Shakspeare's  heroines  ;  and  we  can  quote  but  one  speci- 
men in  justification  of  our  praise.  The  following  is  a 
portion  of  his  remarks  on  Perdita  :  — 

"  The  second  part  of  "Winter's  Tale  introduces  us  to  very  dif- 
ferent scenes  and  persons  from  those  which  make  up  the  first. 
The  lost  princess,  and  heir-apparent  of  Bohemia,  two  of  the 
noblest  and  loveliest  beings  that  ever  fancy  conceived,  occupy 
the  centre  of  the  picture,  while  around  them  are  clustered  rustic 
shepherds  and  shepherdesses,  amid  their  pastimes  and  pursuits, 
the  whole  being  enlivened  by  the  tricks  and  humors  of  a  merry 
Dedler  and  pickpocket.  The  most  romantic  beauty  and  the 
lost  comic  drollery  are  here  blended  together.  For  simple 
purity  and  sweetness,  the  scene  which  unfolds  the  loves  and 
characters  of  the  prince  and  princess  is  not  surpassed  by  any- 
thing in  Shakspeare,  and  of  course  is  not  approached  by  any 
thing  out  of  him.  All  that  is  enchanting  in  romance,  lovely  in 
innocence,  elevated  in  feeling,  sacred  in  faith,  is  here  brought 
together,  bathed  in  the  colors  of  heaven.  The  poetry  is  the  very 
innocence  of  love,  embodied  in  the  fragrance  of  flowers.  Clad 
in  immortal  freshness,  this  scene  is  one  of  those  things  which 
we  always  welcome  as  we  do  the  return  of  spring,  and  over 
which  our  feelings  may  renew  their  youth  forever :  in  brief,  so 
long  as  nature  breathes,  and  flowers  bloom,  and  hearts  love, 
they  will  do  it  in  the  spirit  of  what  is  here  expressed. 

"  Perdita  is  a  fine  illustration  of  native  intelligence  as  dis 
tinguished  from  artificial  acquirements,  and  of  inborn  dignity 
jursting  through  all  the  disadvantages  of  the  humblest  station. 
Schlegel  somewhere  says,  '  Shakspeare  is  particularly  fond  of 
showing  the  superiority  of  the  innate  over  the  acquired  ; '  but 
he  has  nowhere  done  it  more  beautifully  or  more  powerfully 
than  in  this  unfledged  angel. 

'The  pretiiest  low-born  lass  thai  ever 
Ran  on  the  green-sward,  nothing  she  does  or  seems 
But  smacks  of  something  greater  than  herself.' 

Tust  as  much  a  queen  as  if  she  were  brought  up  at  court,  and 
jUFt  as  mu'^h  a  shepherdess  as  if  she  were  born  a  shep'ierd's 


238  ESSAYS   AND   REVIEWS. 

daughter,  the  graces  of  the  princely  and  the  simplicities  of  the 
pastoral  character  seem  striving  which  shall  express  her  loveL'- 
est.  She  is  not  a  poetical  being;  she  is  poetry  itself ;  and 
everything  lends  or  borrows  beauty  at  her  touch.  A  playmate 
of  the  flowers,  when  we  see  them  together,  we  can  hardly  tell 
whether  they  take  more  inspiration  from  her,  or  she  takes  more 
trom  them ;  and  while  she  becomes  the  sweetest  of  poets  in 
making  nosegays,  the  nosegays  in  her  hands  become  the  richest 
of  crowns.  Courted  by  the  prince  in  disguise  at  one  of  then 
rustic  festivals,  herself  the  mistress  of  the  feast,  she  transforms 
the  place  into  a  paradise."  — Vol.  i.,  pp.  331,  332. 

There  is  too  wide  a  variety  of  subjects  included  in  Mr. 
FTudson's  volumes  to  allow  us  room  for  a  special  criti- 
cism on  his  treatment  of  each.  His  lectures  on  As  You 
Like  It,  The  Tempest,  Midsunmier  Night's  Dream, 
Cymbeline,  and  Romeo  and  Juliet,  afford  perpetual  stim- 
ulants both  to  attention  and  controversy.  In  these  he 
has  given  powerful,  and  for  the  most  part  accurate, 
delineations  of  Prospero,  Shylock,  Jaques,  Romeo,  Mer- 
cutio,  and  Caliban,  not  to  mention  Ariel,  the  Nurse,  and 
Bottom.     His  sketches  of  Malvolio  as  "  self-love-sick," 

—  of  Jaques  as  a  refined  epicure  of  sentimental  emotion, 
"an  utterly  useless,  yet  perfectly  harmless  man,  seeking 
wisdom  by  abjuring  its  first  principle,"  —  of  Parolles, 
"that  prince  of  braggarts,  that  valiant  word -gun,  that 
pronoun  of  a  man,  a  marvellous  compound  of  wit,  volu- 
bility, impudence,  rascality,  and  poltroonery,"  as  a 
"  bugbear  of  pretension  and  shadow  in  man's  clothing," 

—  of  Master  Slender,  as  a  "  most  potent  piece  of  imbe- 
c  lity,  an  indescribable  and  irresistible  nihility,  who  is 
obliged  to  be  sui  generis  from  a  lack  of  force  of  charac- 
ter to  imitate  or  resemble  anybody  else,"  —  of  Caliban, 
as  "a  strange,  uncouth,  malignant,  yet  marvellously  life 
like  confusion  of  natures,  part  man,  part  demon,  part 


SKAKSPEARES    CRITICS. 


23y 


Drute,  whom  Prospero  by  his  wonderful  ?rt  and  science 
has  educated  into  a  sort  of  poet,"  —  are  all  adniraMy 
done  and  faithful  to  the  subject;  but  we  (.an  only  allude 
to  them.  In  the  sharp  analysis  and  genia  reproduction 
of  the  comic  characters,  Mr.  Hudson  shows  that  he  is  as 
capable  of  understanding  th'^  philosophy  of  the  ludicrous 
as  of  sympathizing  with  its  mirth. 

But  the  finest  portion  of  his  work  is  that  devoted  to 
the  four  great  tragedies,  Macbeth,  Lear,  Hamlet,  and 
Othello.  These  bear  evident  marks  of  much  elaboration 
in  thought  and  diction,  and  rank,  in  our  opinion,  with 
the  best  specimens  of  philosophical  criticism  in  English 
or  German  literature.  The  vigor  and  brilliancy  of  the 
style,  and  the  verbal  felicities  and  Hudsofiisms  with 
which  it  is  variegated,  are  likely  to  dazzle  away  atten- 
tion, in  some  degree,  from  the  real  weight  and  import- 
ance of  the  matter.  It  would  be  absurd  to  say  that 
they  are  altogether  original,  for  complete  originality  on 
subjects  which  have  engaged  the  attention  of  so  many 
powerful  intellects  would  be  another  name  for  extrava- 
gance and  paradox ;  but  they  are  original  in  the  sense 
of  containing  the  deeply  meditated  opinions  of  one  mind, 
who,  while  he  has  freely  sought  light  from  other  minds, 
has  evidently  adopted  no  opinions  which  he  has  not 
scrupulously  examined.  Some  views  which  are  promi- 
nent in  other  writers  he  has  included  in  his  own,  by 
altering  their  relations  and  limiting  their  applicaticn ; 
but  he  has  not  hesitated  to  reject  many  which  are  well 
accredited.  The  winder: ul  characters  of  these  dramas 
he  appears  to  have  profoundly  stadiid,  especially  in 
regard  to  the  practical  wisdom  which  may  be  evolved 
from  then  by  close  study;  and  his  elt  cidation  of  their 
monJ  and  mental  constitution  is  alwayj  able,  ecen  when 


240  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

It  leaves  room  for  controversy.  No  one  critic  haa 
excelled  him  in  the  forcible  presentation  to  the  under- 
standing and  imagination  of  such  a  gallery  of  characters 
as  Macbeth,  Lady  Macbeth,  Hamlet,  Polonius,  Ophelia, 
Lear,  Cordelia,  Othello,  lago,  and  Desdemona. 

Mr.  Hudson's  general  idea  of  Hamlet,  Shakspeare's 
enigma  ni  character,  is  that  of  "  conscious  plenitude  of 
intellect,  united  with  exceeding  fulness  and  fineness  of 
sensibility,  and  guided  by  a  predominant  sentiment  of 
moral  rectitude ;"  and  he  attempts  to  show,  with  great 
force  and  ingenuity,  that  Harnlet  is  withheld  from 
action,  not  from  the  lack  of  will,  but  by  the  strife  in  his 
mind  between  incompatible  duties ;  filial  piety  prompting 
him  to  obty  the  commands  of  the  ghost,  conscience  for- 
bidding him  to  commit  regicide  and  murder;  and  the 
result  is,  that  the  greatness  of  his  nature  can  be  ex- 
pressed only  in  thought.  It  might  be  objected  to  this, 
that  will  is  a  relative  term,  and  even  admitting  that 
Hamdet  possessed  more  will  than  many  who  act  with 
decision  and  rapidity,  the  fact  that  his  other  povvers 
were  larger  in  proportion  justifies  the  common  belief, 
that  he  was  deficient  in  energy  of  purpose.  Mr.  Hud- 
son says  that  he  always  acts  with  decision,  where  his 
moral  nature  is  not  divided  between  incompatible  duties  : 
but  this  might  be  said  with  as  much  truth  of  the  most 
inefficient  person,  it  being  the  characteristic  of  a  healthy 
mind  that  the  will  is  in  such  harmony  with  the  con- 
science and  the  intellect  that  there  can  be  no  strife 
between  duties,  but  there  must  be  a  resolute  choice  of 
one  course  of  action  as  on  the  whole  the  wisest  and  best. 
The  truth  is,  Hamlet  is  so  complex  a  creation,  and 
includes  within  the  general  unity  of  his  character  such  a 
variety  of  elements,  that  it  is  almost  impossible  to  start* 


shakspeare's  critics.  24i 

any  theory  regarding  him  which  shall  adequately  translate 
our  feeling  of  his  individuality  into  an  intellectuarl  form ; 
and  Mr.  Hudson  himself  is  compelled  to  admit  that  there 
is  a  mystery  about  him  which  "  baffles  the  utmost  efforts 
of  criticism,"  and  to  present  his  own  view  with  more 
indecision  and  less  positiveness  than  is  usual  with  him. 

It  would  be  easy  to  prove  that  the  play  of  Hamlet, 
considered  as  a  work  of  art,  is  not  so  great  as  two  or 
three  of  the  other  tragedies  ;  but  the  feelings  of  men  will 
always  pronounce  in  favor. of  its  containing  the  greatest 
of  Shakspeare's  characters.  Considered  in  respect  to 
its  universality,  Lear,  Macbeth,  and  Othello,  are  but 
great  specialities  in  comparison  ;  more  distinctly  appre- 
hended, it  is  true,  and  addressing  with  more  potencj^  the 
strongest  passions  and  affections,  but  rather  invigorating 
us  with  a  grand  impression  of  human  powers  and  ca- 
pacities, than  prompting  those  "  thoughts  which  wander 
through  eternity,"  or  touching  that  inward  sense  of  our 
inefficiency  as  moral  beings,  which  is  the  mournful  fas- 
cination of  Hamlet.  The  reading  or  representation  of 
the  other  plays  produces  a  rush  and  glow  of  the  blood,  a 
feeling  of  power  and  greatness  as  connected  with  the 
energies  of  guilt  and  the  struggles  of  passion,  a  wonder- 
ful sense  of  what  man  is  able  to  effect  both  in  obeying 
and  conquering  conscience.  The  impression  left  by 
Hamlet  is  that  of  profound  melancholy. 

Many  of  the  various  elements  in  Hamlet's  character 
Mr.  Hudson  has  distinctly  exhibited,  and  acutely  recon- 
ciled some  of  its  apparent  inconsistencies;  and,  as  a 
whole,  we  think  his  essay  will  bear  comparison  with 
the  best  which  have  been  written  on  this  exhaustless 
subject.  The  other  characters  of  the  play,  especially 
Ophelia  and  Polonius,  are  admirably  discriminated 

VOL.  II.  16 


242  ESbAi  .    AND   REVIEWS. 

The  lecture  on  Macbeth  is  the  ablest  in  the  volume 
for  sustained  vigor  of  thought  and  style.  Its  leading 
excellence  consists  in  that  absorption  of  the  writer's 
mind  in  his  subject  which  lends  to  his  essay  a  portion 
of  the  grandeur  of  the  play  itself,  while  it  prevents  him 
from  indulging  in  any  freaks  of  digression.  The  general 
view  taken  of  Macbeth  and  Lady  Klacbeth  we  think  is 
as  original  as  it  is  true,  and  it  is  sustained  with  much 
power.  Imagination,  considered  both  as  a  faculty  of  the 
mind  and  as  an  element  of  character,  is  most  profoundly 
analyzed ;  and  in  a  passage  of  which  we  can  give  but  a 
small  part,  it  is  applied  to  the  settlement  of  various 
disputes  regarding  the  degree  and  kind  of  guilt  which 
should  attach  respectively  to  these  partners  in  crime. 

"  A  strong  and  excitable  imagination,  set  on  fire  of  con- 
science, naturally  fascinates  and  spell-binds  the  other  faculties, 
•^nd  thus  gives  an  objective  force  and  effect  to  its  own  internal 
workings.  Under  this  guilt-begotten  hallucination,  the  subject 
loses  present  dangers  in  horrible  imaginings,  and  comes  to  be 
tormented  with  his  own  involuntary  creations.  Thus  conscience 
inflicts  its  retributions,  not  directly  in  the  form  of  remorse,  but 
indirectly  through  imaginary  terrors  which  again  react  on  the 
conscience,  as  fire  is  kept  burning  by  the  current  of  air  which 
itself  generates.  In  such  a  mind  the  workings  of  conscience 
may  be  prospective  and  preventive  ;  the  very  conception  of 
crime  starting  up  a  swarm  of  terrific  visions  to  wdthhold  the 
subject  from  perpetration.  Arrangement  is  thus  made  in  our 
nature  for  a  process  of  compensation,  in  that  the  same  faculty 
which  invests  crime  with  unreal  attractions  also  calls  up  unreal 
terrors  to  deter  from  its  commission.  A  predominance  of  this 
faculty  everywhere  marks  the  character  and  conduct  of  Mac- 
beth. Hence  his  apparent  freedom  from  compunctious  visitings, 
even  when  he  is  in  reality  most  subject  to  them.  He  seems 
conscienceless  from  the  very  form  in  which  his  conscience 
works  ;  seems  flying  from  outward  dangers,  while  conscious 
guilt  is  the  very  source  of  his  apprehensions.     It  is  probablj 


shakspeare's  critics.  243 

iioiQ  O'veisight  of  this  that  some  have  pronoiinceil  him  a  mere 
cautious,  timid,  remorseless  villain,  restrained  from  crime  only 
b)'-  a  shrinking,  selfish  apprehensiveness.  Undoubtedly  there  is 
much  in  his  conduct  that  appears  to  sustain  this  view  :  he  does 
indeed  seem  dead  to  the  guilt,  and  morbidly  alive  to  the  dangers 
of  his  situation ;  free  from  remorses  of  conscience,  and  filled 
with  terrors  of  imagination ;  unchecked  by  moral  feelings,  and 
oppressed  by  selfish  fears  :  but  whence  his  vvonJerful  and  un- 
controllable irritability  of  imagination?  How  comes  his  mind 
so  prolific  of  horrible  imaginings,  but  that  his  imagination  its  If 
is  set  on  fire  of  hell  ?  The  truth  is,  he  seems  remorseless  only 
because  in  his  mind  the  agonies  of  remorse  project  and  trans- 
late themselves  into  the  spectres  of  a  conscience-stricken  imag 
ination. 

"In  Lady  Macbeth,  on  the  contrary,  the  workings  of  cuu 
science  can  only  be  retrospective  and  retributive  :  she  is  too 
animaginative  either  to  be  allured  to  crime  by  imaginary  splen 
dors,  or  withheld  from  it  by  imaginary  terrors.  Without  an 
organ  to  project  and  embody  its  workings  in  outward  visions, 
her  conscience  can  only  prey  upon  itself  in  the  tortures  of 
remorse.  Accordingly,  she  knows  no  compunctious  visiting;; 
before  the  deed,  nor  any  suspension  or  alleviation  of  them  after 
it.  Thus,  from  her  want  or  weakness  of  imagination,  she 
becomes  the  victim  of  a  silent  but  most  dreadful  retribution. 
Conscience  being  left  to  its  own  resources,  she  may  indeeil  pos- 
sess its  workings  in  secret,  but  she  can  never  for  a  moment 
repress  them  ;  nay,  .she  cannot  reVe'al  them  if  she  would,  and 
she  dare  not  if  she  could ;  the  fires  burn  not  outwards  into 
spectres  to  sear  her  eyeballs  and  frighten  her  out  of  her  self- 
possession,  but  concentrate  themselves  into  hotter  fury  within 
her.  This  is  a  form  of  anguish  to  which  Heaven  has  apparently 
denied  the  relief  or  the  mitigation  of  utterance.  The  agonies 
ol  an  imbosomed  hell  cannot  be  told,  they  can  only  be  felt ;  or, 
at  most,  the  awful  secret  can  be  but  dimly  shadowed  forth,  in 
the  sighings  of  the  furnace  when  all  is  asleep  but  the  unquench- 
able fire,  or  in  the  burning  asunder  of  the  cords  that  unite  the 
sou.  to  its  earthly  dwelAng-place.  With  such  imazing  depth 
and  power  of  insight  does  Shakspeare  detect  and  unfold  the 
jecret  workings  of  the  human  mind  1  "  —  Vol.  ii.,  pp.  165-  -167. 


2-14  ESSAiS    AND   REVIEWS. 

The  Weird   Sisters  Mr.   Hudson  has  painted  in  al 
their  moral  hideousness  and  grotesque  grandeur. 

"  The  Weird  Sisters,  indeed,  and  all  that  belongs  to  them^ 
are  but  poetical  impersonations  of  evil  influences:  they  are  the 
imaginative,  irresponsible  agents  or  instruments  of  the  devil ; 
capable  of  inspiring  guilt,  but  not  of  incurring  it ;  in  and 
through  whom  all  the  powers  of  their  chief  seem  bent  up  to  the 
accomplishment  of  a  given  purpose.  But  with  all  their  essen- 
tial wickedness,  there  is  nothing  gross  or  vulgar  or  sensual 
about  them.  They  are  the  very  purity  of  sin  incarnate ;  the 
vestal  virgins,  so  to  speak,  of  hell ;  radiant  with  a  sort  of 
inverted  holiness  ;  fearful  anomalies  in  body  and  soul,  in  whom 
everything  seems  reversed ;  whose  elevation  is  downwards  ; 
whose  duty  is  sin  j  whose  religion  is  wickedness  ;  and  the  law 
(if  whose  being  is  violation  of  law !  Unlike  the  Furies  of 
jEschylus,  they  are  petrific,  not  to  the  senses,  but  to  the 
thoughts.  At  first,  indeed,  on  merely  looking  at  them,  we  can 
hardly  keep  from  laughing,  so  uncouth  and  grotesque  is  their 
appearance  :  but  afterwards,  on  looking  into  them,  we  find  them 
terrible  beyond  description  ;  and  the  more  we  look  into  them, 
the  more  terrible  do  they  become  ;  the  blood  almost  curdling  in 
our  veins,  as,  dancing  and  singing  their  infernal  glees  over 
embryo  murders,  they  unfold  to  our  thoughts  the  cold,  passion- 
less, inexhaustible  malignity  and  deformity  of  their  nature."  -  - 
Vol  II.,  p.  148. 

The  essay  on  Lear  is  full  of  admirable  matter,  show- 
ing, however,  a  struggle  with  the  difhculties  of  the  sub- 
ject. In  some  respects  it  is  the  most  powerful  and  the 
most  characteristic  of  Mr.  Hudson's  Lectures.  Leat 
himself  is  analyzed  at  considerable  length,  and  (he  amaz- 
ing grandeur  of  the  character,  as  it  develops  itself  undei 
the  pressure  of  unnatural  wrong,  and  the  might  and  vari 
Bty  of  passions  which  are  let  loose  throughout  the  drama 
are  set  forth  with  great  distinctness  and  a  firm  chitch  ol 
Uie  subject  in  all  its  parts.     Edmund  is  finely  dissecte«, 


shakspeare"?  :ritics.  245 

and  wel\  discriminated  from  lago  and  Richard.  Kent 
and  Edi^ar  are  clearly  portrayed  in  their  connection  with 
the  general  design  of  the  play.  The  description  of  Cor- 
drlia  we  have  referred  to  before;  but  her  heavenly 
beauty  is  not  more  fully  shown  than  the  selfishness  and 
"hell-bom  tact  "of  her  sisters.  "There  is  a  smooth, 
glib  rhetoric,"  says  Mr.  Hudson,  "  in  their  professions, 
unsweetened  with  the  least  infusion  of  feeling,  and  a 
dry,  hard,  icy  alertness  of  thought  and  speech  in  what 
afterwards  comes  from  them,  which  is  almost  terrific,  and 
which  burns  an  impression  into  our  minds  from  its  very 
coldness;"  and  further  on  he  does  full  justice  to  the 
"  wantonness  and  intrepidity  of  their  malice."  The 
Fool  has  ever  been  a  stumbling-block  to  critics  of  the 
play ;  but  Mr.  Hudson,  instead  of  denying  his  right  to  be 
in  it  at  all.  has  wisely  attempted  to  show  Shakspeare's 
object  in  placing  him  there.  We  extract  the  concluding 
paragraph  of  his  view  of  the  character. 

"I  know  not,  therefore,  how  I  can  better  describe  the  Fool, 
than  as  the  soul  of  pathos  in  a  sort  of  comic  masquerade  ;  one 
in  whom  fun  and  frolic  are  sublimed  and  idealized  into  tragic 
beauty  j  with  the  garments  of  mourning  showing  through  and 
softened  by  the  lawn  of  playfulness.  In  his  '  laboring  to  out- 
jest  Lear's  heart-struck  injuries,'  we  see  that  his  wits  are  set 
a-dancing  by  grief;  that  his  jests  are  secreted  from  the  depths 
cf  a  heart  struggling  with  pity  and  sorrow,  as  foam  enwreathes 
the  face  of  deeply  troubled  waters.  So  have  I  seen  the  lip 
quiver  and  the  cheek  dimple  into  a  smile,  to  relieve  the  eye  of  a 
burden  it  was  reeling  under,  yet  ashamed  to  let  fall.  There  is 
al.  along  a  shrinking,  velvet-footed  delicacy  of  step  in  the  Fool's 
antics,  as  if,  awed  by  the  holiL.ess  of  the  ground,  they  had  put 
the  shoes  from  off  their  feet ;  and  he  seems  bringing  diversion 
to  our  thoughts,  that  he  may  the  better  steal  a  sense  of  woe  into 
lur  hearts ;  as  grief  som«  times  puts  on  a  face  of  mirih,  and 
den  gets  betrayed  by  its  very  disguise.     It  is  truly  hard  to 


246  tiSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

leH  wh'scuer  the  inspired  antics  which  glitter  and  sparkle  from 
/he  surface  of  his  mind  be  in  more  impressive  contrast  with  the 
dark,  tragic  scenes  into  which  they  are  thrown,  like  rockets  intc 
a  midnight  tempest,  or  with  the  undercurrent  of  deep,  tragic 
thoughtfulness  out  of  which  they  falleringly  issue  and  play."  — 
\rol.  II.,  pp.  273,  274. 

We  have  little  space  left  to  remark  on  Mr.  Hudson's 
criticism  of  the  tragedy  of  Othello.  lago,  Othello,  and 
Desdemona,  characters  well  fitted  to  test  the  strength 
and  delicacj'^  of  his  powers  of  analysis  and  interpretation, 
he  has  treated  very  differently  from  most  of  Shakspeare's 
critics.  lago  he  considers  as  acting,  not  from  revenge,  but 
from  a  certain  intellectual  pride  and  "lust  of  the  brain;" 
in  regard  to  his  own  assignment  of  the  motives  for  his 
deeds,  our  critic  agrees  with  Coleridge  in  calling  it  "the 
motive-hunting  of  a  motiveless  malignity."  This  char- 
acter is  Mr.  Hudson's  masterpiece  of  intellectual  anat- 
omy, lago  is  the  perfection  of  demoniacal  cleverness, 
and  it  is  pleasant  to  see  the  wonderful  inward  mechan- 
ism of  his  unmatched  malignity  of  nature  thus  exhibited 
in  all  its  subtilty  and  complexity  of  arrangement  and 
movement.  Othello  is  represented  as  the  exact  opposite 
of  lago,  even  in  respect  to  jealousy,  which,  being  a  mean 
and  despicable  passion,  is  more  appropriate  to  our  honest 
Ancient  than  to  the  noble  Moor.  Mr.  Hudson  thinks 
that  Othello  acted  neither  from  jealousy  nor  revenge,  but 
from  a  sense  of  justice,  in  destroying  Desdemona;  that 
he  killed  her,  not  from  suspicion,  but  from  evidence  of 
her  guilt;  and  the  fact  that  this  evidence  was  the  manu 
hcture  of  lago's  diabolical  ingenuity  does  not  alter  the. 
Motives  of  his  conduct.  There  can  be  little  doubt  that 
this  view  is  substantially  the  true  one.  Othello  gives 
eridenco,  not  only  in  his  character  taken  by  itself,  but  ir 


siiakspej!  re  s  critics. 


2^1 


rarious  portions  of  the  play,  that  jealousy  and  revenge 
can  have  no  place  in  his  open  and  ingenuous  mind;  and 
in  the  last  scene  he  particularly  discriminates  between 
murdering  Desdemona  and  sacrificing  her.  But  we 
think  that  the  critic  does  not  sufficiently  consider  in  his 
eloquent  admiration  of  Othello's  character,  that  though 
the  intention  of  the  latter  is  to  punish  crime,  he  has  a 
wild  way  of  doing  it,  and  that  the  frightful  tempests  of 
passion  which  sweep  over  his  mind,  and  hurry  him  into 
the  commission  of  the  deed,  are  characteristic  not  so 
much  of  a  just  man  as  of  a  noble  barbarian,  who  mis- 
takes the  object  of  justice  from  the  very  fact  that  justice 
with  him  is  a  passion  rather  than  a  principle.  We  do 
not  believe,  as  Mr.  Hudson  seems  to  do,  that  Shakspeare 
intended  Othello  as  a  model  of  manhood,  but  as  an 
instance  of  the  weakness  of  a  noble  nature,  in  being  the 
victim  of  hot  and  treacherous  impulses,  when  those 
impulses  pointed  in  the  direction  of  honor.  The  fact 
that  he  does  not  act  from  jealousy,  revenge,  or  any  mean 
motive,  but  from  passions  noble  and  generous  when 
properly  restrained,  does  not  vindicate  his  manhood  from 
the  reproach  of  folly  in  giving  himself  up  to  the  excesses 
of  his  sensibility.  Mr.  Hudson  praises  the  objectiveness 
of  Othello's  mind,  and  if  we  consider  the  Moor  only  in 
his  calm  moments,  the  praise  is  deserved  ;  but  no  person, 
who  has  ever  felt  the  stir  of  a  fierce  impulse  when  he 
has  thought  himself  wronged  or  insulted,  need  be  told 
that  passion  not  only  blinds  the  best  intellect,  but  draws 
the  conscience  itself  into  its  boiling  depths ;  not  only 
irnpe.s  to  act  without  a  clear  view  of  the  case,  but  for 
'he  time  sanctifies  the  impulse  as  right  and  just.  Every 
\r\ie  and  great  man,  therefore,  distrusts  what  his  pas- 


248  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

sions  teach,  and  no  person  can  be  a  model  of  manhood 
whose  nature  is  their  victim. 

The  most  beautiful  portion  of  the  lecture  is  that 
devoted  to  the  representation  of  Othello  and  Desde- 
mona,  in  respect  to  their  fitness  for  each  other ;  and 
a  triumphant  answer  is  given  to  the  many  objections  to 
the  match  on  the  score  of  color  and  character.  Mr. 
Hudson  calls  it  "  the  chaste  union  of  magnanimity  and 
meekness."  In  his  delineation  of  Desdemona,  he  devel- 
ops the  exceeding  beauty  of  this  most  delicate  and  ex- 
quisite of  Shakspeare's  women,  with  uncommon  refine- 
ment of  sentiment  and  certainty  of  minute  analysis, — 
at  the  same  time  a  little  injuring  the  effect  by  snapping 
his  epigrammatic  torpedoes  in  the  faces  of  the  champions 
of  woman's  rights.  This  delineation  is  an  illustration 
of  the  flexibility  with  which  the  writer  adapts  his  style 
to  the  tone  and  character  of  his  subject,  and  of  his 
singular  felicity  in  exhibiting  the  pathos  of  gentleness, 
and  the  beauty  of  deep,  strong  and  quiet  affection. 

Mr.  Hudson,  in  these  lectures  on  Shakspeare,  has 
made  the  analysis  of  every  character  the  occasion  of 
observations  on  a  wide  variety  of  subjects  which  its 
nature  suggests.  He  has  thus  given  his  philosophy  of 
life,  in  relation  to  the  practical  operation  of  the  passions 
and  beliefs  of  men  ;  and  we  think  he  has  been  especially 
successful  in  treating  that  important  branch  of  ethics 
which  refers  to  the  passage  of  virtues  into  vices, 
Through  their  connection  with  pride,  vanity,  or  extrav 
jgant  enthusiasm.  As  a  large  portion  of  the  world's 
goodness  is,  like  King  Richard's  frame,  but  half  made 
up,  and  offends  from  its  inharmonious  and  partial  char 
acter  where  it  is  most  impressive  by  its  separate  quali 
ties,  the  field  open  to  the  ethical  analyst  is  unbounded 


shakspeare's  CRiucs.  249 

Mid  as  we  havi  rather  ungently  touched  on  some  of  Mr, 
Hudson's  digre.  sions,  it  is  but  just  to  observe  that  he  has 
3vinced  throughout  a  disposition  to  disconnect  virtue 
from  cant,  fanaticism,  and  conceit ;  that  he  has  detected 
with  a  sure  eye,  and  whipped  with  an  honest  ardor,  the 
excellence  which  is  self-conscious,  and  the  purity  which 
is  proudly  malignant ;  and  that  he  has  exhibited,  with  a 
fine  union  of  sagacity  and  eloquence,  the  beauty  of  that 
humble  goodness  which  seeks  to  elude  the  eye,  which 
"  vaunteth  not  itself  and  is  not  pufTed  up."  In  a  period 
like  the  present,  when  conscience  rushes  to  the  rostnuu 
anu  explodes  in  fifth-rate  heroics,  and  every  "puny 
whipster"  of  morality  mistakes  his  appetite  for  noto- 
riety for  a  call  from  the  seventh  heaven  to  rail  at  every 
person  wiser  and  better  than  himself,  such  lessons  in 
ethics  may  not  be  without  their  effect,  recommended  as 
they  are  by  a  vigor  and  wit  as  inexhaustible  as  the  folly 
and  fanaticism  on  which  they  are  exercised.  We  trust 
that  the  present  volumes  will  not  be  the  last  in  which 
the  author's  keen  intellect  and  sturdy  character  will  find 
adequate  expression.  He  has  not,  as  yet,  touched  the 
historical  plays  of  Shakspeare,  a  sphere  of  investigation 
and  interpretation  where  he  may  win  additional  honors. 
In  choosing  the  world's  great  poet  as  the  text  for  his 
inquiries  into  human  nature,  he  has  a  subject  which, 
however  it  may  exhaust  the  resources  of  criticism,  is  in 
Itself  exhaustless.  The  present  work  we  consider  an 
•evidence  rather  than  the  measure  of  his  capacity ;  and 
when  we  next  meet  him  on  the  open  field  of  literature, 
we  trust  to  find  some  extravagances  retrenched  and  some 
peculiarities  suppressed,  which  now  to  some  extent  injure 
*iis  style,  and  encumber  the  movement  of  his  mind. 


RICHARD  BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN.* 

The  elegant  edition  of  Sheridan's  dramatic  works, 
published  by  Moxon,  betrays  one  strange  blunder,  in 
including  the  entertainment  of  The  Camp,  a  feeble  farce 
written  by  Sheridan's  friend  Tickell,  and  altogether 
unworthy  of  preservation  in  any  form.  The  biography 
furnished  by  Leigh  Hunt  possesses  little  merit  beyond 
an  occasional  luckiness  of  phrase  and  an  occasional 
felicity  of  criticism.  It  is  written  with  more  than  his 
usual  languid  jauntiness  of  style,  and  with  less  than  his 
usual  sweetness  of  fancy.  Indeed,  that  cant  of  good 
feeling  and  conceit  of  heartiness,  which,  expressed  in  a 
certain  sparkling  flatness  of  style,  constitute  so  much  of 
the  intellectual  capital  of  Hunt's  sentimental  old  age,  are 
as  out  of  place,  in  a  consideration  of  the  sharp,  shining 
wit,  the  elaborate  diction,  and  polished  artifice  of  Sheri- 
dan's writings,  as  in  the  narration  of  the  brilliant  deprav- 
ities and  good-natured  good-for-nothingness  of  Sheridan's 
character.  Like  all  Hunt's  essays,  however,  it  is  exceed- 
ingly an.using,  even  in  its  vivacious  presumption  and 

*The  Dramatic  Works  of  Richard  Brinsley  Slieridan.  With  a  Biographi 
cal  and  Critical  Siietch.  By  Leigh  Hunt.  London :  Edward  Moxon.  Svc 
pp.  153. 

Speeches  of  the  Right  Honorable  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan.  Edited  by 
Constitutional  Friend.  London  :  Henry  G.  Bohn.  3  voU.  8vo.  -  -  Norl 
American  Revietc,  January,  1S4S. 


RICHARD    BRINSLEY    SHERIDAN.  25l 

genial  pertness  ;  but  a  man  like  Sheridan,  the  dramatist, 
the  orator,  the  politician,  the  boon  companion, 

"  The  pride  of  the  palace,  the  bowt  ,  and  the  hall," 

deserved  a  less  supercilious  consideration.  Hunt's  sketch 
conveys  a  far  more  vivid  impression  of  himself  than  of 
his  subject. 

The  prominent  qualities  of  Sheridan's  character  were 
ambition  and  indolence,  the  love  of  distinction  and  the 
love  of  pleasure  ;  and  the  method  by  vi^hich  he  con- 
trived to  gratify  both  may  be  said  to  constitute  his  biog- 
raph5^  From  the  volatility  of  his  mind  and  conduct, 
it  would  be  a  misuse  of  language  to  say  that  he  had 
good  principles  or  bad  principles.  He  had  no  principles 
at  all.  His  life  was  a  life  of  expedients  and  appearances, 
in  which  he  developed  a  shrewdness  and  capacity,  made 
up  of  talent  and  mystification,  of  ability  and  trickery, 
which  were  found  equal  to  almost  all  emergencies.  He 
most  assuredly  possessed  neither  great  intellect  nor  great 
passions.  There  was  nothing  commanding  in  his  mind, 
nothing  deep  and  earnest  in  his  heart.  A  good-humored 
selfishness  and  a  graceful  heartlessness  were  his  best 
substitutes  for  virtue.  His  conduct,  when  not  determined 
by  sensuality,  was  determined  by  vanity,  the  sensuality 
of  the  intellect;  and  in  both  he  followed  external  direc- 
tion Yet,  such  as  he  was,  the  son  of  an  actor,  indolent, 
immoral,  unlearned,  a  libertine  and  a  drunkard,  without 
fortune  and  without  connections,  he  achieved  high  social, 
literary,  and  parliamentar}'  distinction.  His  life  was  one 
long  career  of  notoriety  and  sens:iality.  At  the  age  of 
twenty-six  he  had  written  some  of  the  most  sparklinf 
tomedies  in  the  English  language  From  that  period  he 
became  a  politician,  and  eventrnilly  was  ranked  with 


S52  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEW  ?. 

Burke,  Fox,  and  Pitt,  among  the  most  accomplished  ora- 
tors in  the  House  of  Commons.  No  other  man  with 
such  moral  habits,  joined  to  such  slender  acquirements, 
ever  raised  himself  to  such  an  elevation  by  pure  force  of 
tact  and  talent.  It  might  be  said  that  Fox  was  as  dissi- 
pated ;  but  then  Sheridan,  unlilce  Fox,  had  not  been 
educated  for  a  legislator;  and  more  than  all,  he  had  none 
of  Fox's  power  of  impassioned  argumentation,  none  of 
his  greatness  and  generosity  of  5  lul.  Burke,  like  Sheri- 
dan, attained  a  prominent  position  in  the  most  aristocratic 
of  parties,  without  the  advantages  of  birth  and  connec- 
tions ;  but  then  he  had  the  advantage  of  being  the  greatest 
statesman  of  his  country,  and  Sheridan  could  make  nc 
pretensions  to  Burke's  force  of  character  and  amplitude 
of  comprehension,  to  his  industry,  his  learning,  or  to  that 
fiery  and  flexible  imagination  which  penetrated  all  with 
life.  It  must  be  allowed  that  Sheridan  approached 
neither  of  these  men  in  solid  reputation  ;  but  as  his 
ambition  was  but  one  side  of  his  love  of  pleasure,  the 
notoriety  which  immediately  succeeded  his  efforts  was 
all  he  desired.  His  vanity  fed  and  his  senses  gratified, 
there  was  little  left  for  ambition  to  seek  or  pleasure  to 
crave.  All  that  there  is  in  immediate  fame  to  intoxicate 
the  possessor,  all  that  there  is  in  fame  which  can  be 
enjoyed,  he  obtained  with  the  smallest  possible  scorning 
of  delights,  and  the  smallest  possible  living  of  laborious 
days. 

Sheridan  was  essentially  a  man  of  wit.  By  this  we 
do  not  mean  that  he  was  merely  a  witty  man,  but  that 
wit  was  as  much  the  predominant  element  in  his  charac' 
ter  as  it  was  the  largest  power  of  his  mind.  From  his 
labit  of  looking  at  life  and  its  duties  through  the  medium 
nf  epigram,  he  lost  all  sincerity  of  thought  and  earnest 


RICHARD    BRINSLEY    SHEKIDAN.  26o 

less  of  passion  From  his  power  of  detecting  what 
was  inconsistent,  foolish,  and  bad  in  the  appearances  of 
things,  he  gradually  came  to  estimate  appearances  more 
thr.n  realities,  and  to  do  everything  himself  for  effect. 
His  intellect  became  an  ingenious  machine  for  the  man- 
ufacture of  what  would  tell  on  the  occasion,  without 
regard  to  truth  or  falsehood.  The  consequence  was  a 
wonderful  power  of  contrivance,  of  shrewdness,  o^  finesse, 
of  brilliant  insincerity,  without  any  vitality  of  thought 
and  principle,  without  any  intellectual  character.  His 
moral  sense,  also,  gradually  wore  away  under  a  habit  of 
sensual  indulgence,  and  a  habit  of  overlooking  moral 
consequences  in  ludicrous  relations.  His  conscience 
jould  give  him  no  pang  which  a  jest  could  not  heal. 
Vice,  therefore,  appeared  to  his  mind  as  pleasantry  as 
well  as  pleasure,  and  wit  "  pandered  will."  For  instance, 
he  was  notoriously  unfaithful  to  his  marriage  vow.  To 
no  man  could  adultery  wear  a  more  jocose  aspect.  "  In 
marriage,"  he  says,  "  if  you  possess  anything  good,  it 
makes  you  eager  to  get  everything  else  good  of  the  same 
sort."  He  made  no  scruple  of  cheating  his  creditors,  but 
to  his  mind  dishonesty  was  merely  a  practical  joke.  It 
was  the  same  with  everything  else.  Crime  appeared  to 
him  as  a  kind  of  mischievous  fun,  and  Belial  always 
reeled  into  his  meditations  hand  in  hand  with  Momus. 
Blasphemy,  intemperance,  adultery,  sloth,  licentiousness, 
trickery,  —  they  were  mere  jests.  No  man  ever  violated 
all  the  common  duties  of  life  with  such  easy  good-naturo 
and  absencs  of  malignant  passions.  He  became  unmoral 
rather  than  immoral. 

In  considering  Sheridan's  career,  we  continually  mx-et 
this  wit  as  a  disposition  of  character  as  well  as  a  power 
of  mind.     It  gives  a  lightness  and  airiness  to  the  many 


354  ESSAYS    AND    Kt VIEWS. 

rascalities  and  insincerities  of  his  life.  No  man's  vices 
have  been  more  leniently  treated,  because  their  verj 
relation  provokes  a  smile.  He  fascinates  posterity  as  he 
fascinated  his  contemporaries.  Falsehood,  heartlessness, 
sensuality,  insincerity,  all  those  qualities  which  bring 
contempt  on  other  men,  in  him  wear  an  attractive  aspect ; 
and  in  consideration  of  his  being  such  a  "  good  fellow," 
the  common  rules  by  which  we  judge  of  character  have 
been  waived  in  his  case  by  general  consent. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  set  forth  the  talents  of  this 
remarkable  adept  in  mystification  and  Regius  Professor 
of  appearances,  without  some  sketch  of  his  life.  He 
was  the  son  of  Thomas  Sheridan,  the  actor  and  elocu- 
tionist, and  was  born  in  Dublin,  in  the  month  of  Septem- 
ber, 1751.  His  father  was  a  man  of  no  mean  capacity, 
but  spoiled  by  an  obstinate  conceit  of  his  powers,  which 
made  his  talents  pass  with  others  for  less  than  they  were 
worth.  His  mother,  whom  Dr.  Parr  pronounced  quite 
celestial,  was  the  writer  of  two  or  three  plays,  the  novel 
of  Sidney  Biddulph,  and  the  Tale  of  Nourjahad.  Her 
nature  was  much  finer  than  her  husband's,  a  fact  she  con- 
trived to  conceal  almost  as  much  from  herself  as  from 
him.  Richard  early  displayed  an  indisposition  to  learn ; 
and  rather  than  relinquish  the  sports  for  the  studies  of 
boyhood,  he  endured  with  heroical  resignation  the  stigma 
fastened  upon  him  by  his  father,  of  being  an  "  impene- 
trable dunce."  In  1762,  he  was  sent  to  Harrow,  then 
under  the  direction  of  Dr.  Robert  Sumner,  and  having 
for  one  of  its  under-masters  no  less  distinguished  a  per- 
son than  Dr.  Parr.  Neither  of  these  eminent  scholars 
could  overcome,  either  by  command  or  persuasion,  his 
ndolence  and  indifTerence,  though  their  exertions  were 
prompted  by  the  conviction  that  his  mind  was  natural  Ij 


niCIIARD    BRINSLEY    SHERIDAN.  2bt» 

of  no  common  order.  The  fact  that  some  of  his  aristo- 
cratical  school-fellows  taunted  him  with  being  "a  player's 
son,"  however  much  it  might  sting  his  sensitive?  vanity, 
could  not  rouse  in  him  the  spirit  of  emulation.  He  pre- 
ferred to  make  both  masters  and  pupils  his  friends  by  his 
good-humor  and  engaging  manners,  and  was  soon  the 
most  popular  person  in  the  school.  The  boys  emulously 
prompted  him  in  the  recitations  of  his  class ;  and  his 
brilliant  mischievousness  as  often  amused  as  provoked 
the  masters.  He  seems  to  have  escaped  the  discipline 
of  the  rod  even  under  such  a  believer  in  the  birch  as  Dr. 
Parr.  That  good-natured  audacity  and  that  fascinating 
address,  which  captivated  so  many  in  his  subsequent 
career,  and  rarely  forsook  him  in  the  wreck  of  character 
and  fortune,  were  partially  developed  in  his  youth.  But 
he  was  not  happy  at  school.  He  was  constantly  in  that 
state  of  wretchedness  which  results  from  the  struggle  of 
vanity  with  indolence,  —  for  years  always  behind  his 
companions,  and  trusting  to  momentai'j'  expedients  to 
escape  the  consequences  of  idleness. 

At  Harrow  he  remained  until  his  seventeenth  year, 
and  left  it  with  but  a  distant  acquaintance  with  any 
branch  of  knowledge,  imperfectly  versed  even  in  gram- 
mar and  spelling,  but  still  with  some  dexterity  ii.  Eng- 
lish verse,  and  some  knowledge  of  polite  literature.  We 
should  judge  that  Pope  and  Wycherley  had  been  his 
favorite  authors,  not  merely  because  his  rhymes  were 
modelled  on  the  one  and  his  plays  betray  the  influence 
of  the  other,  but  because  he  always  nretended  to  dislike 
Pope  and  to  be  ignorant  of  Wycnerley.  He  nevci 
seems  thoroughly  to  have  mastered  the  mystery  of  spell- 
ing. At  the  age  of  twenty  he  spelt  thing,  think,  whether, 
V)ether,  which,  wich,  where,  were,  and  appeared  to  take  a 


256  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

malignant  delight  in  interfering  with  the  domest.  c  felicity 
of  double  Tw's  and  s's.  At  Harrow  he  was  not  considered 
vicious  by  Dr.  Parr,  who  charged  his  subsequent  irregu- 
larities upon  his  being  thrown  upon  the  world  without  a 
profession.  At  the  period  of  his  leaving  school  he  waa 
strikingly  handsome,  with  that  fire  and  brilliancy  in  his 
eyes  which  afterwards  added  so  much  to  the  effect  of  his 
oratory. 

He  was  not  sent  to  the  university,  either  from  his 
lather's  inability  to  bear  the  expense,  or  from  a  despair 
of  its  effect  in  making  him  a  student.  The  elder  Sher- 
idan took  him  home,  and  undertook  to  complete  his  edu- 
cation under  his  own  eye  ;  but  Richard  proved  as  indo- 
cile a  pupil  there  as  at  school,  and  carelessly  followed 
his  own  tastes.  At  Harrow  he  had  formed  a  friendship 
with  a  vivacious  school-fellow,  named  Halhed,  who  was 
afterwards  a  judge  in  India,  and  in  connection  with  him 
had  translated  into  English  verse  some  of  the  poems  of 
Theocritus.  Halhed  went  to  Oxford,  but  kept  up  a  cor- 
respondence with  Sheridan  at  Bath.  They  projected 
various  works,  among  which  was  a  farce  entitled  Jupiter, 
a  volume  of  loose  stories  to  be  called  Crazy  Tales,  and  a 
translation  of  Aristaenetus.  The  latter  was  completed, 
though  Sheridan's  portion  was  long  delayed  by  his  indo- 
lence, and  the  incessant  references  he  was  con  .pelled  to 
make  to  his  dictionary.  It  was  published  in  1771,  but 
failed  to  bring  either  the  fame  or  profit  which  the  juve- 
nile book-makers  had  anticipated.  The  book  in  itself  is 
worthless,  both  in  the  original  and  translation  ;  but  the 
latter  is  curious  as  indicating  the  light  and  libertine 
tone  of  thought,  and  the  command  of  florid  common 
places  of  diction,  which  Sheridan  had  acquired  at  the 
age  of  nineteen.     Neither  in  its  morality  nor  composi 


RICHARD    BRINSLit;y    SHERIDAIN.  25'< 

tion  does  it  give  any  promise  of  future  excellence  in  life 
or  letters. 

But  the  peculiar  character  of  his  mind,  and  the  style 
in  which  he  Avas  eventually  to  excel,  are  well  displayed 
m  a  small  ironical  essay,  written  about  the  year  1770, 
and  devoted  to  a  mock  assignment  of  reasons  why  the 
Duke  of  Grafton  should  not  lose  his  head.  The  mean- 
ness, fickleness,  unpunctuality,  and  licentiousness,  of  the 
noble  duke,  are  quite  felicitously  caricatured.  The  posi- 
tion is  gravely  taken,  that  his  Grace's  crimes  are  not  of 
such  a  nature  as  "  to  entitle  his  head  to  a  place  on 
Temple  Bar ;"  and  to  the  charge  of  giddiness  and  neg- 
lect of  public  duty  the  author  triumphantly  opposes  some 
undoubted  facts. 

"  I  think,"  he  observes,  "  I  could  bring  several  instances  which 
would  seem  to  promise  the  greatest  steadiness  and  resolution.  I 
have  known  him  to  make  the  Council  wait,  on  the  business  of 
the  whole  nation,  when  he  had  an  appointment  to  Newmarket. 
Surely  this  is  an  instance  of  the  greatest  honor  ;  —  and  if  we 
see  him  so  punctual  in  private  appointments,  must  we  not  con- 
clude he  is  infinitely  more  so  in  greater  matters  ?  Nay,  when 
"Wilkes  came  over,  is  it  not  notorious  that  the  Lord  Mayor  went 
to  his  Grace  on  that  evening,  proposing  a  scheme,  which,  by 
securing  this  fire-brand,  might  have  put  an  end  to  all  the 
troubles  he  has  caused  ?  But  his  Grace  did  not  see  him  ;  —  no, 
he  was  a  man  of  too  much  honor ;  —  he  had  promised  that  even- 
ing to  attend  Nancy  Parsons  to  Ranelagh,  and  he  would  not 
disappoint  her,  but  made  three  thousand  people  witnesses  of  his 
punctuality." 

We  perceive  here  that  covert,  sharp  edge  of  ingenious 
wit,  which  was  silently  fashioning  Sheridan's  mind  and 
iharacter. 

During  the  first  few  years  after  leaving  school,  SherJ 

VOL.  II.  17 


258  ESSAYS    AND    PE VIEWS. 

dan  seems  to  have  lived  in  his  father's  family,  without 
any  definite  purpose  in  life,  and  only  varying  the  monoi- 
ony  of  gayety  and  idleness  with  occasional  experiments 
in  composition.  In  1771,  he  published  a  poem  called 
Clio's  Protest,  or  the  Picture  Varnished,  in  which  the 
principal  beauties  of  Bath  are  celebrated  in  some  four 
hundred  rather  loose-jointed  octosyllabic  lines.  There  is 
one  couplet,  hovA^ever,  which  has  become  classic  :  — 

•'  You  write  with  ease  to  show  your  breeding, 
But  easy  writing's  curst  hard  reading." 

m  this  poem,  also,  there  are  eight  lines  which  altogether 
exceed  any  other  poetical  attempts  of  Sheridan,  where 
the  least  pretension  is  made  to  sentiment. 

"  Marked  you  her  cheek  of  rosy  hue? 
Marked  you  her  eye  of  sparkling  blue? 
That  eye  in  liquid  circles  moving  ; 
That  cheek  abashed  at  man's  approving  ; 
The  one  Love's  arrows  darting  round  ; 
The  other  blushing  at  the  wound  : 
Did  she  not  speak,  did  she  not  move, 
Now  Pallas,  now  the  Queen  of  Love  ?  " 

At  Bath,  Sheridan  fell  in  love  with  Miss  Linley,  a 
fascinating  young  singer  of  sixteen,  whose  beauty  and 
accomplishments  had  turned  the  heads  of  the  whole 
town.  In  his  management  of  the  affair  he  displayed  as 
much  finesse  as  passion.  Among  a  crowd  of  suitors,  he 
seems  to  have  been  the  only  one  who  had  touched  hei 
heart,  and  the  only  one  whose  intentions  were  concealed. 
His  brother,  Charles  Francis  Sheridan,  and  his  friend 
Halhtd,  were  among  his  rivals,  yet  both  were  ignorant 
of  his  passion,  and  both  made  him  their  confidant.  The 
father  of  Miss  Linley  seems  to  have  looked  upon  hf  j 


RICHARD    BRINSLEV    SHERIDA_N.  259 

from  an  exclusively  business  point  of  view,  and  would 
of  course,  naturally  oppose  her  engagement  to  a  penni 
less  idler  like  Sheridan.  His  project  of  her  life  was 
simply  this  :  money  was  to  be  made  by  her  profession  as 
a  vocalist,  and  her  singing  was  to  lead  the  way  to  a 
profitable  marriage.  Indeed,  he  had  already  engaged 
her  hand  to  an  honest-hearted  elderly  gentleman  by  the 
name  of  Long;  but  she  escaped  from  the  engagement  just 
before  th-"  period  set  for  the  marriage,  by  secretly  repre- 
senting to  him  the  impossibility  of  his  ever  gaining  her 
affections.  He  magnanimously  broke  off  the  alliance, 
without  betraying  the  reason ;  and  when  Mr.  Linley 
threatened  a  prosecution,  generously  settled  £3000  upon 
her  to  satisfy  the  father's  demands.  Romance  has 
hardly  a  nobler  instance  of  disinterestedness,  and  cer- 
tainly Miss  Linley  never  possessed,  in  lover  or  husband 
so  true  and  unselfish  a  friend. 

Then  followed  her  elopement,  and  the  scandal  about 
Captain  Mathews.  This  portion  of  domestic  history  is 
still  involved  in  perplexing  contradictions.  As  far  as  we 
can  glean  the  facts,  they  are  these :  Miss  Linley  had 
become  disgusted  with  her  profession,  partly  from  the 
intrigues  of  Sheridan  to  push  his  suit,  partly  from  her 
being  pestered  with  the  dishonorable  advances  of  a  mar- 
ried libertine  by  the  name  of  Mathews.  It  has  been 
asserted  that  the  latter  had  touched  her  heart,  as  well  as 
awakened  her  fears,  and  also  that  Sheridan  assisted  or 
prompted  his  addresses,  probably  as  a  refined  stratagem  to 
force  her  into  a  position  which  would  make  his  services 
necessary  to  her  peace  and  honor.  In  that  tumult  of 
mind  springing  from  the  conflict  of  various  fears  and  pas- 
sions, she  formed  the  romantic  determination,  advised  or 
supported  by  Sheridan,  of  elcping  to  France  and  enter- 


263  ESSAYS    AJSD    REVIEWS. 

ing  a  convent.  Fe  offered  to  be  her  protector  in  the 
journey,  was  accepted,  and  the  design  was  at  once  car- 
ried into  effect.  On  arriving  at  London,  he  raised  the 
necessary  funds  for  the  expedition  from  an  old  brandy 
merchant,  a  friend  of  his  father,  by  representing  that  he 
was  running  away  to  France  with  an  heiress.  At  Calais, 
according  to  the  most  trustworthy  accounts,  he  jersuaded 
her  that  her  character  was  so  compromised  by  her  elope- 
ment, that  its  salvation  depended  on  an  immediate  mar- 
riage with  him.  They  were  accordingly  secretly  united, 
in  March,  1772.  Mr.  Linley  overtook  them  at  Calais, 
but  not  before  the  ceremony  had  been  performed ;  and 
after  some  explanation  of  the  affair  from  Sheridan,  in 
which  the  private  marriage  does  not  appear  to  have  been 
mentioned,  took  his  daughter  back  to  England.  Sheri- 
dan also  returned,  to  brave  an  exasparated  father,  and 
to  fight  a  couple  of  duels  with  Captain  Mathews,  in  the 
last  of  which  he  was  seriously  v/ounded.  But  vvith  all 
his  fine-spun  intrigues  and  their  unpleasant  results,  there 
did  not  appear  to  be  any  hope  of  his  being  able  to  claim 
his  wife.  The  elder  Sheridan  and  Mr.  Linley  were 
both  opposed  to  the  union,  and  both  seemingly  ignorant 
that  a  marriage  had  occurred.  Every  precaution  was 
employed  to  keep  the  lovers  apart.  Mr.  Thomas  Sheri- 
dan made  his  son  take  an  oath  never  "  to  marry  "  Miss 
Linley.  Mr.  Linley  cautiously  watched  his  daughter. 
A  year's  war  of  cunning  and  contrivance  ensued,  in 
which  Sheridan  was  of  course  victorious.  Among  other 
expedients  to  see  her,  he  at  one  time  disguised  himself 
as  a  hackney-coachman,  and  drove  her  home  from  the 
concert-room.  They  were  finally  married,  according  to 
the  English  fashion,  in  April,  1773,  —  having  fairly  out 
witted  their  parents  in  all   their  schemes,  and  at  Ias{ 


RICHARD    BRINSLt^    SHERIDAN.  261 

jtbtained  their  consent  or  connivance  to  the  union.  The 
elder  Sheridan,  however,  discarded  his  son,  and  was  not 
reconciled  to  him  for  years. 

During  this  excited  period  of  his  life,  Sheridan  did  not 
sacrifice  his  characteristic  indolence  and  habit  of  procras- 
tination. A  shamefully  libellous  account  of  his  second 
duel  with  Captain  Mathews  was  published  in  a  Bath 
paper.  Indignant  at  this  impudent  lie,  he  resolved  to 
answer  u  immediately,  but  first  told  his  friend  Woodfall 
to  publish  it  in  his  paper,  in  order  that  the  public  might 
see  the  charge  and  the  refutation.  Woodfall  followed 
his  directions,  circulated  the  scandal  through  his  columns, 
but  never  could  induce  Sheridan  to  write  the  promised 
exposure  of  the  calumny.  This  is  in  perfect  character, 
—  to  hazard  his  life  in  two  duels,  and  then  bear  the 
imputation  of  cowardice  rather  than  take  the  trouble  of 
writing  a  letter ! 

The  circumstances  which  attended  his  courtship  and 
marriage  gave  him  great  notoriety.  His  own  talents  and 
fascinating  manners,  together  with  the  musical  and  per- 
sonal accomplishments  of  his  wife,  naturally  brought  him 
into  much  society.  For  nearly  two  years,  he  subsisted, 
after  his  own  mysterious  fashion,  with  no  known  income 
except  the  interest  on  the  £3000  settled  by  Mr.  Long  on 
Mrs.  Sheridan.  Though  he  was  entered  as  a  student  in 
the  Temple,  neither  his  intellectual  nor  social  tastes 
would  admit  of  a  serious  study  of  the  law.  But  during 
this  period  he  wrote  the  exhilarating  comedy  of  The 
Rivals,  which  was  produced  at  Covent  Garden  in  Jan- 
uar}'",  1775.  It  failed  on  the  first  night,  from  the  stupid- 
ity or  indifference  of  the  actor  who  performed  Sir  Lucius 
O'Trigger.  Another  having  been  substituted  in  this  part, 
the  play  was  very  successful,  and  has  been  popular  ever 


262  ESSAYS    A>JD    REVIEW&, 

since.  It  placed  Sheridan,  at  the  age  of  twenty-three,  ai 
the  head  of  living-  dramatists.  Nothing  so  brilliant  had 
been  brought  out  on  the  English  stage  since  Farquhar  ; 
and  while  its  wit  and  hilarity  suggested  the  old  school 
of  comic  dramatists,  it  was  open  to  no  objection  on  the 
score  of  decency. 

•  The  design  of  Sheridan  in  The  Rivals  was  not  dra- 
matic excellence,  but  stage  effect.  In  seeing  it  per- 
formed, we  overlook,  in  the  glitter  and  point  of  the  dia- 
logue, the  absence  of  the  higher  requisites  of  comedy. 
The  plot  is  without  progress  and  development.  The 
characters  are  overcharged  into  caricatures,  and  can 
hardly  be  said  to  be  conceived,  much  less  sustained. 
Each  has  some  oddity  stuck  upon  him,  which  hardly 
rises  to  a  peculiarity  of  character,  and  the  keeping  of 
this  oddity  is  carelessly  sacrificed  at  every  temptation 
from  a  lucky  witticism.  The  comic  personages  seem 
engaged  in  an  emulous  struggle  to  outshine  each  other. 
What  they  are  is  lost  sight  of  in  what  they  say.  Spar- 
kling sentences  are  bountifully  lavished  upon  all.  Fag 
and  David  are  nearly  as  pungent  as  their  masters.  The 
scene  in  the  fourth  act,  where  Acres  communicates  to 
David  his  challenge  to  Beverley,  is  little  more  than  a  bril- 
liant string  of  epigrams  and  repartees,  in  which  the  coun- 
try clown  plays  the  dazzling  fence  of  his  wit  with  all  the 
skill  of  Sheridan  himself.  When  Acres  says  that  no 
gentleman  will  lose  his  honor,  David  is  ready  with  the 
brisk  retort,  that  it  then  "  would  be  but  civil  in  honoi 
never  to  risk  the  loss  of  a  gentleman."  Acres  swears 
"  odd  crowns  and  laurels,"  that  he  will  not  disgrace  his 
ancestors  by  refusing  to  fight.  David  assures  him,  irv 
an  acute  non  sequitur,  that  the  surest  way  of  not  dis 
gracing  his  ancestors  is  to  keep  as  long  as  he  can  out  of 


RICHARD    BRINSLEY    SHERIDAN.  26d 

their  con/pany.  "  Look'ee  now,  mastei,  to  go  to  them  in 
such  haste  —  with  an  ounce  of  lead  in  your  brains  —  I 
should  think  might  as  well  be  let  alone.  Our  ancestors 
are  a  very  good  sort  of  folks,  but  they  are  the  last  people 
1  should  choose  to  have  a  visiting  acquaintance  with  " 
No  dramatist  whose  conception  of  character  was  strong 
would  fall  into  such  shining  inconsistencies. 

The  truth  is,  in  this,  as  in  Sheridan's  other  comedies, 
we  tacitly  overlook  the  keeping  of  character  in  the  blaze 
of  the  wit.  Everybody  laughs  at  Mrs.  Malaprop's  mis- 
takes in  the  use  of  words,  as  he  would  laugh  at  similar 
mistakes  in  an  acquaintance  who  was  exercising  his 
mgenuity  instead  of  exposing  his  ignorance.  They  are 
too  felicitously  infelicitous  to  be  natural.  Her  remark  to 
Lydia,  that  she  is  "as  headstrong  as  an  allegorj^  on  the 
banks  of  the  Nile,"  —  her  scorn  of  "algebra,  simony, 
fluxions,  paradoxes,  and  such  inflammatory  branches  of 
learning,"  —  her  quotation  from  Hamlet,  in  which  the 
royal  Dane  is  gifted  with  the  "  front  of  Job  himself,"  — 
her  fear  of  going  into  "  hydrostatic  fits,"  —  her  pride  in 
the  use  of  "  her  oracular  tongue  and  a  nice  derangement 
of  epitaphs,"  —  are  characteristics,  not  of  a  mind  flip- 
pantly stupid,  but  curiously  acute.  In  the  scene  where 
Lydia  Languish  tells  her  maid  to  conceal  her  novels  ai 
the  approach  of  company,  the  sentimentalist  is  lost  in 
the  witty  rake  ;  "  Lord  Ainsworth  "  being  ordered  to  be 
thrust  under  the  sofa,  and  "The  Innocent  Adultery"  tu 
be  put  into  "The  Whole  Duty  of  Man." 

Sir  Anthony  Absolute  is  the  best  character  of  the 
piece,  and  is  made  up  of  the  elder  Sheridan  and  Smoi- 
let's  Matthew  Bramble.  Doubtless  Sheridan  had  many 
a  conversation  with  his  father,  of  which  the  first  scene 
between    Sir   Anthony  and  Captain  Absolute  is   but  a 


264  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

ludicrously  heightened  description.  The  scenes,  also 
where  the  doctrine  and  discipline  of  duelling  are  dis 
cussed,  and  in  which  Acres  and  Sir  Lucius  shine  with 
so  much  splendor,  the  author  may  have  obtained  in  the 
course  of  his  difficulties  with  Captain  Mathews.  Falk- 
land is  a  satire  on  a  state  of  mind  which  Sheridan  him- 
self experienced  during  his  courtship  of  Miss  Linley. 
The  fine  talk  of  Falkland  and  Julia  is  as  unintentionally 
ludicrous  as  any  comic  portion  of  the  play.  We  can 
easily  imagine  how  the  author  himself  might  have  made 
Puff  ridicule  it.  Indeed,  Sheridan's  attempts  at  serious 
imagery  rarely  reached  beyond  capitalizing  the  names  of 
abstract  qualities,  or  running  out  commonplace  similes 
into  flimsy  and  feeble  allegories.  His  sentiment,  also,  is 
never  fresh,  generous,  and  natural,  but  almost  always  as 
tasteless  in  expression  as  hollow  in  meaning.  The 
merit  of  Tiie  Rivals  is  in  its  fun  and  farce ;  and  the 
serious  portions,  lugged  in  to  make  it  appear  more  like  a 
regular  comedy,  are  worse  than  the  attempts  of  Holcroft, 
Morton  and  Reynolds,  in  the  same  style. 

The  farce  of  St.  Patrick's  Day,  which  Sheridan  brought 
out  a  few  months  after  The  Rivals,  though  written  in 
evident  haste,  bears,  in  a  few  passages,  marks  of  that 
elaborate  and  fanciful  w^it  in  which  the  chief  strength  of 
his  mind  consisted.  In  the  second  scene  of  the  first  act, 
the  dialogue  between  Lauretta  and  her  mother,  on  the 
relative  merits  of  militia  and  regular  officers,  is  keen  and 
sparkling.  "Give  me,"  says  Lauretta,  "  the  bold,  up- 
right youth,  who  makes  love  to-day,  and  has  his  head 
shot  off  to-morrow.  Dear !  to  think  how  the  sweet  fel- 
lows sleep  on  the  ground  and  fight  in  silk  stockings  and 
lace  ruffles."  To  this  animated  burst  of  girlish  admira- 
tion, Mrs.  Bridget  contemptuously  replies  :  —  "  To  want 


RICHARD    BRINSLEY    SHERIDAN.  2fi5 

n  husband  that  may  wed  you  to-day  and  be  sent  the 
Lord  knows  where  before  night;  then  in  a  twelvemonth, 
perhaps,  to  come  home  like  a  Colossus,  with  one  leg  at 
New  York  and  the  other  at  Chelsea  Hospital !  "  This  is 
one  of  the  most  startlingly  ludicrous  fancies  in  Sheridan's 
works. 

The  success  of  The  Rivals  seems  to  have  inspired 
Sheridan  with  industry  as  well  as  ambition,  for  during 
the  summer  of  this  year  he  wrote  the  delightful  opera 
of  The  Duenna.  It  vi'as  produced  at  Covent  Garden,  in 
November,  1775,  and  had  the  unprecedented  run  of 
seventjr-five  nights,  exceeding  even  the  success  of  The 
Beggar's  Opera  by  twelve  nights. 

The  diction  of  The  Duenna,  and  the  management  of 
its  character  and  incident,  evince  a  marked  improvement 
upon  The  Rivals.  The  wit,  though  not  so  intellectual 
as  that  of  The  School  for  Scandal,  is  so  happily  com- 
bined with  heedless  animal  spirits,  as  often  to  produce 
the  effect  of  humor.  It  glitters  and  plays  like  heat- 
lightning  through  the  wliole  dialogue.  Epigram,  repar- 
tee, and  jest,  sparkle  on  the  lips  of  every  character.  The 
power  of  permeating  everything  with  wit  and  glee,  — 
love,  rage,  cunning,  avarice,  religion,  —  is  displayed  to 
perfection.  It  touches  lightly,  but  keenly,  on  that  point 
in  every  subject  which  admits  of  ludicrous  treatment, 
and  overlooks  or  blinks  the  rest.  The  best  of  the  songs 
are  but  epigrams  of  sentiment.  There  is  a  spirit  of  joy- 
ous mischievousness  and  intrigue  pervading  the  piece, 
which  gives  a  delicious  excitement  to  the  brain.  Little 
Isaac,  the  cunning,  overreaching,  and  overreached  Jew, 
is  the  very  embodiment  of  gleeful  craft,  —  "roguish,  per- 
haps, but  keen,  devilish  keen."  The  scene  in  which  he 
woos  the   Due  ma,  and   that  which  succeeds  wi  h  Don 


266  ESSAYS   AND    REVIEWS. 

Jerome,  are  among  the  most  exquisite  in  the  play,  Th 
sentiment  of  the  piece  is  all  subordinated  to  its  fun  and 
mischief.  The  scene  in  the  Priorj^  with  the  jolly  monks 
is  the  very  theology  of  mirth.  Father  Augustine  tellb 
his  brothers  of  some  sinner  who  has  left  them  a  hundred 
ducats  to  be  remembered  in  their  masses.  Father  Pau\ 
orders  the  money  to  be  paid  to  the  wine-merchant,  and 
adds,  "  We  will  remember  him  in  our  cups,  which  will 
do  just  as  well."  When  asked  if  they  had  finished  their 
devotions,  their  reply  is,  "  Not  by  a  bottle  each." 

The  wit  of  The  Duenna  is  so  diffused  through  the  dia- 
logue as  not  readily  to  admit  of  quotation.  It  sparkles 
over  the  piece  like  sunshine  on  the  ripples  of  running 
water.  There  are,  however,  a  few  sentences  which  stand 
ipart  in  isolated  brilliancy,  displaying  that  curious  inter- 
penetration  of  fancy  and  wit,  in  which  Sheridan  after- 
wards excelled.  Such  is  Isaac's  description  of  the  proud 
beauty,  —  "the  very  rustling  of  her  silk  has  a  disdainful 
sound;"  and  his  answer  to  Don  Ferdinand's  furious 
demand  to  know  whither  the  absconding  lovers  have 
gone  :  —  "I  will !  I  will !  but  people's  memories  differ ; 
some  have  a  treacherous  memory:  now,  mine  is  a  cow- 
ardly memory,  —  it  takes  to  its  heels  at  the  sight  of  a 
drawn  sword,  it  does  i'  faith  ;  and  I  could  as  soon  fight 
as  recollect."  In  the  same  vein  is  Don  Jerome's  observa- 
tion on  the  face  of  the  Duenna :  —  "I  thought  that 
dragon's  front  of  thine  would  cry  aloof  to  the  sons  of 
gallantry;  steel-traps  and  spring-guns  seemed  writ  in 
every  wrinkle  of  it."  The  description  of  the  same  old 
lady's  face,  as  "  parchment  on  which  Time  and  Deform- 
ty  have  engrossed  their  titles,"  was  omitted  in  the  pub- 
Ushed  copy ;  though  brilliant,  he  could  afford  to  lose  it 
The    Duenna's    delineation    of    little    Isaac,  after   tha 


RICHARD    liRINSLEY    SHERIDAN.  '261 

leluded  Jew  has  called  her  as  "  old  as  his  mother  and 
as  ugly  as  the  devil,"  reaches  the  topmost  height  of  con- 
temptuous hyperbole.  "  Dare  such  a  thing  as  you,"  she 
8xclaims,  "  pretend  to  talk  of  beauty  ?  —  A  walking  ron- 
deau !  —  a  body  that  seems  to  owe  all  its  consequence  to 
the  dropsy  !  —  a  pair  of  eyes  like  two  dead  beetles  in  a 
wad  of  brown  dough  !  —  a  beard  like  an  artichoke,  with 
dry,  shrivelled  jaws  which  would  disgrace  the  mummy 
of  a  monkej  !  "  But  perhaps  the  most  purely  intellect- 
ual stroke  of  pleasantry  is  the  allusion  to  Isaac,- — who 
has  forsworn  the  Jewish  faith,  and  "  has  not  had  time  to 
get  a  new  one,"  —  as  standing  "  like  a  dead  wall  between 
church  and  synagogue,  or  like  the  blank  leaves  between 
the  Old  and  New  Testament." 

Mr.  Moore  has  given  a  few  sentences  from  the  manu- 
script of  The  Duenna  which  do  not  appear  in  the  printed 
copy.  Among  these  is  the  following  fine  soliloquy  of 
[iopez,  the  servant  of  Don  Ferdinand  :  — 

"  A  plague  on  these  haughty  damsels,  say  1 :  —  when  they 
")lay  their  airs  on  their  whining  gallants,  they  ought  to  consider 
that  we  are  the  chief  sufTerers,  —  we  have  all  their  ill  humor? 
at  second-hand.  Donna  Louisa's  cruelty  to  my  master  usuallv 
converts  itself  into  blows  by  the  time  it  gets  to  me ;  she  can 
frown  me  black  and  blue  at  any  time,  and  I  shall  carry  the 
marks  of  the  last  box  on  the  ear  she  gave  him  to  my  grave. 
Nay,  if  she  smiles  on  any  one  else,  I  am  the  sufferer  for  it ;  if 
she  says  a  civil  word  to  a  rival,  I  am  a  rogue  and  a  scoundrel ; 
and  if  she  sends  him  a  letter,  my  back  is  sure  to  pay  the 
postage." 

Sheridan's  brilliant  success  as  a  dramatist  led  to  his 
investments  in  theatrical  property,  —  a  fertile  source  of 
pecuniary  difficulties  to  him  in  after  years.  In  June, 
1776,  he  purchased  a  portion  of  Garrick's  share  in  th« 


268  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

patent  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre.  For  this  pioperty  he 
paid  £10,000.  How  he  obtained  the  money  has  nevei 
been  as.'.ertained.  Hunt  conjectures  that  it  was  borrowed 
from  some  wealthy  nobleman.  But  the  mysterious  prin- 
ciples of  Sheridan's  science  of  finance,  or  Jinesse,  have 
never  been  laid  open.  He  afterwards,  in  177S,  bought 
Mr.  Lacy's  moiety  for  £45,000,  and  thus  having  the  con- 
trol of  the  theatre,  he  made  his  father  the  manager,  —  a 
reconciliation  having  taken  place  a  short  time  before 
In  raising  all  this  money  Sheridan  must  have  displayed 
a  power  of  persuasion  and  management  which  would 
have  done  honor  to  a  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer.  It 
is  doubtful  if  even  Mr.  Pitt,  who  performed  miracles  in 
the  way  of  loans,  ever  equalled  it. 

The  first  fruit  of  Sheridan's  new  interest  in  the  drama 
was  A  Trip  to  Scarborough,  altered,  with  but  few  addi- 
tions, from  Sir  John  Vanbrugh's  Relapse.  This  was 
really  a  service  to  the  cause  both  of  comedy  and  decency, 
for  the  original  play,  though  one  of  the  most  richly 
humorous  in  the  language,  and  in  Lord  Foppington,  Sir 
Tunbelly  Clumsey,  and  Miss  Hoyden,  containing  char- 
acters which  could  not  well  be  lost  to  the  stage,  was  still 
conceived  in  so  libertine  a  spirit,  and  deformed  with  so 
audacious  a  coarseness  of  expression,  that  it  must  soon 
have  passed  from  the  list  of  acting  plays.  This  comedy 
shows  us  at  once  the  superiority  of  Vanbrugh  to  Sheri- 
dan in  humor  and  dramatic  portraiture,  and  his  inferior- 
ity in  wit  and  polish.  Sheridan  could  not  have  delineated 
with  such  consistency  of  purpose  that  prince  of  coxcombs, 
Lord  Foppington.  As  an  illustration  of  the  difference 
oetwecn  the  manner  of  the  two  dramatists,  we  extract  a 
oortion  of  the  dialogue  between  Young:  Fashion  and  his 


RICHARD    BEUMSLEY    SHERIDAN.  269 

brother,  on  the  return  of  the  former  to  his  native  country. 
a  penniless  adventurer  :  — 

"  Fashion.  Now  your  people  of  business  are  gone,  brother,  I 
aope  I  may  obtain  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  audience  with  you. 

^'- Lord  Fup.  Faith,  Tam,  I  must  beg  you'll  excuse  me  ai 
this  time,  for  I  have  an  engagement  which  I  would  not  break 
for  the  salvation  of  mankind. 

"Fash.     Shall  you  be  back  to  dinner? 

"  Lord  Fop.  As  Gad  shall  judge  me,  I  can't  tell ;  for  it  is 
passible  I  may  dine  with  some  friends  at  Donner's. 

"  Fash.  Shall  I  meet  you  there  ?  For  I  must  needs  talk 
with  you. 

"  Lord  Fop.  That  I  'm  afraid  may  n't  be  quite  so  praper  ;  for 
those  I  commonly  eat  with  are  a  people  of  nice  conversation ; 
and  you  know.  Tarn,  your  education  has  been  a  little  at  large. 
But  there  are  other  ordinaries  in  town,  very  good  beef  ordina- 
ries,—  I  suppose,  Tam,  you  can  eat  beef?  —  However,  dear 
Tam,  I  'm  glad  to  see  thee  in  England,  stap  my  vitals." 

This  is  the  perfection  o-f  coxcombical  heartlessness 
and  egotism,  —  the  sublime  of  ideal  frippery.  It  is  easy 
to  distinguish  here  between  the  hearty  exaggeration  of 
humor  and  the  hard  caricature  of  wit. 

Sheridan  reached  the  height  of  his  dramatic  fame  in 
May,  1777,  by  the  production  of  The  School  for  Scandal, 
a  comedy  which  still  occupies  the  first  place  on  the  stage, 
and  which  will  ever  be  read  with  delight  for  the  splen- 
dor, condensation,  and  fertility  of  its  wit,  the  felicitous 
contrivance  of  some  scenes  and  situations,  the  general 
brilliancy  of  its  matter,  and  the  tingling  truth  of  its 
satirical  strokes.  As  a  representation  of  men  as  they 
appear,  and  manners  as  they  are,  it  has  the  highest 
merit.  The  hypocrisies  of  life  were  never  more  skilfully 
probed,  or  its  follies  exposed  to  an  ordeal  of  more  polisned 
Korn.     It  was  triumphantly  successful   from  the  first, 


270  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

and  during  its  long  run  exceeded  most  other  attractions 
of  town  life.  Probably  no  comedy  ever  cost  its  author 
more  toil,  or  was  the  slow  result  of  more  experiments  in 
diction  and  scenic  effect  It  was  commenced  before  The 
Rivals.  With  his  usua.  sagacity,  Sheridan  contrived 
that  it  should  appear,  in  a  great  measure,  as  the  hasty 
product  of  an  indolent  genius,  spurred  into  activity  by 
the  pressure  of  business  engagements.  Mr.  Moore,  in 
his  life  of  the  author,  has  introduced  us  into  the  work- 
shop of  the  Hterary  mechanician,  shown  us  the  scattered 
limbs  of  the  characters,  the  disjointed  sentences  of  the 
dialogue,  and  the  little  grains  of  diamond  dust  as  they 
first  sparkled  into  substantial  being.  Every  portion  was 
elaborated  with  the  nicest  care,  —  not  to  purchase  ele- 
gance by  dilution,  but  to  fix  the  volatile  essence  of 
thought  in  the  smallest  compass  of  expression,  to  sharpen 
the  edge  of  satire  to  the  finest  point,  to  give  scorn  itis 
keenest  sting.  Beginning  with  weakness  and  verbiage, 
he  did  not  end  until  he  had  reduced  his  matter  to  the 
consistency  as  well  as  glitter  of  the  most  polished  steel. 

The  last  contribution  of  Sheridan  to  dramatic  litera- 
ture was  the  farce  of  The  Critic,  produced  in  1779 ;  we 
say  the  last,  for  his  adaptations  of  Pizarro  and  The 
Stranger,  tw^enty  years  after,  were  contributions  neither 
to  literature  nor  the  stage.  The  Critic  excels  everything 
of  its  kind  in  the  English  language,  for  it  is  to  be  com- 
pared with  Buckingham's  Rehearsal  and  Fielding's 
Mi(i0S,  not  with  Beaumont's  Knight  of  the  Burning 
Pestle.     The  wit  always  tells,  and  never  tires. 

Thus,  at  the  age  of  twenty-eight,  Sheridan,  the  *"'  im 
penetrable  dunce  "  of  his  first  schoolmaster,  had  contrived 
to  enrich  English  letters  with  a  series  of  plays  which 
are  to  English  prose  what  Pope's  satires  are  to  Engiisk 


RICIiARD    BRINSLEY    SHEKIUAN.  "li 

7erse.  We  may  now  pauis  to  consider  the  nature  and 
extent  of  his  comic  powers,  and  his  claim  to  be  ranked 
among  the  masters  of  comic  genius. 

Sheridan's  defects  as  a  dramatist  answer  to  the  defects 
of  his  mind  and  character.  Acute  in  observing  external 
appearances,  and  well  informed  in  what  rakes  and  men 
of  fashion  call  life,  he  was  essentially  superficial  in  mind 
and  heart.  A  man  of  great  wit  and  fancy,  he  was  sin- 
gularly deficient  in  the  deeper  powers  of  humor  and 
imagination.  All  his  plays  lack  organic  life.  In  plot, 
character,  and  incident,  they  are  framed  by  mechanical, 
not  conceived  by  vital,  processes.  They  evince  no  genial 
enjoyment  of  mirth,  no  insight  into  the  deeper  springs 
of  the  ludicrous.  The  laughter  they  provoke  is  the 
laucrhter  of  antipathy,  not  of  sympathy.  It  is  wit  detect- 
ing external  inconsistencies  and  oddities,  not  humor  rep- 
resenting them  in  connection  with  the  inward  constitution 
whence  they  spring.  The  great  triumphs  of  comic  genius 
have  been  in  comic  creations,  conceived  through  the  pro- 
cesses of  imagmation  and  sympathy,  and  instinct  vvith 
the  vital  life  of  mirth.  Such  are  the  comic  characters 
of  Shakspeare,  of  the  elder  dramatists  generally,  of 
Addison,  Goldsmith,  Fielding,  Sterne,  Scott,  and  Dick- 
ens. A  writer  who  grasps  character  in  the  concrete 
gives  his  creation  a  living  heart  and  brain.  His  hold 
upon  the  general  conception  is  too  firm  to  allow  his  fancy 
to  seduce  him  into  inconsistencies  for  the  sake  of  fine 
separate  thoughts.  Everything  that  the  character  says 
is  an  expression  of  what  the  character  is.  Such  a  crea- 
tion impresses  the  mind  as  a  whole.  Its  unity  is  never 
'ost  in  the  variety  of  its  manifestation.  This  is  erident 
enough  in  the  case  of  Falstaflf,  for  the  living  idea  of  the 
■nan  impressed  on  our  imaginations  gives  more  r  'rthful 


272 


ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 


delight  than  his  numberless  witticisms.  The  \ritticisms, 
indeed,  owe  much  of  their  effect  to  their  intimate  rela- 
tion with  the  character.  But  the  principle  is  no  less 
true,  though  less  evident,  of  Mercutio,  Beatrice,  and  the 
airier  creations  of  mirth  generally.  We  conceive  of 
them  all  as  living  beings,  whose  wit  and  humor  do  not 
begin  with  their  entrance,  or  cease  with  their  exit  from 
the  scene,  but  overflow  in  fun,  whether  we  are  by  to 
hear  or  not.  Such  creations  represent  the  poetry  of 
mirth,  and  spring  from  profound  and  creative  minds. 

Now,  Sheridan's  comic  personages  display  none  of  this 
life  and  genial  fun.  They  seem  sent  upon  the  stage 
simply  to  utter  brilliant  things,  and  their  wit  goes  out 
with  their  exit.  Everything  they  say  is  as  good  as  the 
original  conception  of  their  individuality,  and  character 
is  therefore  lost  in  the  glare  of  its  representation.  In 
truth,  Sheridan  conceived  a  character  as  he  conceived  a 
jest.  It  first  flashed  upon  his  mind  in  an  epigrammatic 
form.  In  his  Memoranda,  published  by  Moore,  we  find 
the  hints  of  various  dramatic  personages  embodied  in 
smart  sayings.  Thus,  one  is  indicated  in  this  significant 
sentence :  —  "I  shall  order  my  valet  to  shoot  me,  the 
first  thing  he  does  in  the  morning."  Another  is  sketched 
as  "an  old  woman  endeavoring  to  put  herself  back  into 
a  girl ;"  another,  as  a  man  "  who  changes  sides  in  all 
arguments,  the  moment  you  agree  with  him  ;"  and  an- 
other, as  a  "  pretty  woman  studying  looks,  and  endeavor- 
ing to  recollect  an  ogle,  like  Lady ,  who  has  learned 

to  play  her  eyelids  like  Venetian  blinds."  In  all  these 
we  perceive  wit  laughing  at  external  peculiarities,  and 
subjecting  them  to  the  malicious  exaggeration  of  fancy 
but  not  the  dramatist  searching  for  internal  qualities,  and 
cnoulding  them  into  new  forms  of  mirthful  being.     The 


RICHARD    BKliNSLEV     SHEllIUAN.  273 

character  is  but  one  of  the  many  pleasantries  it  is  made 
to  speak.  In  those  instances  where  Sheridan  most 
nearly  produces  the  effects  of  humor,  it  is  done  by  the 
cooperation  of  brisk  animal  spirits  with  fancy,  or  by 
adopting  and  refining  upon  the  delineations  of  others. 

We  would  not,  in  these  remarks,  be  considered  as 
underrating  Sheridan's  real  powers.  He  is  undoubtedly 
to  be  placed  among  the  wittiest  of  writers  and  speaker.N. 
His  plays,  speeches,  and  the  records  of  his  conversation, 
sparkle  with  wit  of  almost  all  kinds,  from  the  most 
familiar  to  the  most  recondite.  Though  seldom  genial, 
it  is  never  malignant ;  and  if  it  rarely  reaches  far 
beneath  the  surfaces  of  things,  it  plays  over  them  with 
wonderful  brilliancy.  No  English  comic  writer,  who 
was  not  also  a  great  poet,  ever  approached  him  in  fine- 
ness and  remoteness  of  ludicrous  analogy.  In  delicacy 
of  allusion,  in  exquisite  lightness  and  certainty  of  touch, 
in  concise  felicity  and  airiness  of  expression,  his  wit  is 
almost  unmatched.  It  has  been  asserted  that  he  had 
not  a  fertile  fancy,  and  that  he  gained  much  of  his  repu- 
tation by  the  care  with  which  he  husbanded  his  stores. 
He  was  doubtless  often  complimented  for  his  readiness 
when  he  least  deserved  it,  and  was  cunning  in  the 
r.oncealment  of  preparation.  But  we  think  he  was  so 
entirely  a  wit  as  to  be  choice  to  daintiness  in  what  he 
employed,  and  to  aim  at  perfection  in  its  verbal  expres- 
sion. He  would  not  always  trust  to  a  mere  flow  of 
animal  spirits  to  fashion  the  light  idea  of  the  minute  ; 
for  his  object  was  not  mere  hilarity,  but  the  keen,  subtile, 
piercing  strokes'^jf  the  intellect.  We  believe  he  sup- 
pressed more  sparkling  jokes  than  he  ever  wrote  or 
uttered ;  that  the  fertility  of  his  fancy  was  great,  but 
that  its  expression  was  checked  by  his  taste.     There  are 

VOL.  u.  18 


5  /  «  ESSAYS    AJMU    REVIEWS. 

as  many  stories  of  his  readiness  as  of  his  premeditatioi. 
His  calling  Whitbread's  image  of  the  phoenix  "a  poul- 
terer's description  of  a  phcenix,"  and  his  objecting  to  a 
tax  on  mile-stones  as  unconstitutional,  because  "  they 
were  a  race  who  could  not  meet  to  remonstrate,"  are  as 
happy  .IS  any  of  his  most  elaborated  epigrams. 

Brilliant  as  had  been  the  success  of  Sheridan  as  a 
dramatist,  he  commenced,  shortly  after  the  production  of 
The  Critic,  a  still  more  brilliant  career  as  an  orator  and 
politician.  His  powers  of  conversation,  and  his  delight 
in  social  pleasures,  brought  him  into  terms  of  intimacy 
with  many  prominent  members  of  the  Whig  opposition 
who  could  appreciate  both  his  talents  and  good-fellow- 
ship. Through  Lord  John  Townsend,  he  became  ac- 
quainted with  Mr.  Fox,  and  they  were  mutually  pleased 
at  their  first  meeting.  Fox  declared  Sheridan  the  wit- 
tiest man  he  had  ever  known.  An  introduction  to 
Burke  soon  followed.  He  soon  became  one  of  the  most 
welcome  visiters  at  Devonshire  House,  "  where  politics 
was  made  to  wear  its  most  attractive  form,  and  sat 
enthroned,  like  Virtue  among  the  Epicureans,  with  all 
the  Graces  and  Pleasures  for  handmaids."  At  Brooks's 
Club-house,  where  the  Whig  politicians  blended  con- 
viviality with  business,  he  soon  shone  preeminent  among 
the  hardest  drinkers  and  wittiest  talkers,  —  the  very  man 
to  do  honor  to  that 

"  liberal  Bronks,  whose  speculative  skill 
Is  hasty  credit  and  a  distant  bill  ; 
Who,  nursed  in  clubs,  disdains  a  vulgar  trade, 
Exults  to  trust,  and  blushes  to  be  paid." 

There  his  spirits  were  repressed  by  no  attempt  on  the 
Dart  of  his  associates,  noble  by  birth  or  genius,  to  asspri 


J.'ICHARD    BRINSLEY    SHERIDAN.  275 

ihe  lora  or  tlie  Right  Honorable.  The  usual  stj'le  of 
address  was  Jack  Townsend,  Ned  Burke,  Tom  Gien- 
ville,  Dick  Sheridan,  and  the  like.  The  ease  and  famil- 
iarity of  the  whigs  in  their  social  intercourse,  and  thoso 
signs  of  the  times  which  indicated  their  approach  ir§ 
change  from  opposition  to  administration,  offered  stimu- 
lants both  to  Sheridan's  love  of  pleasure  and  to  his  ambi- 
tion. He  joined  the  party,  and,  with  a  few  exceptions, 
was  faithful  to  its  creed  and  leaders  through  life.  His 
brilliancy  and  adroitness  m.ade  him  an  able  coadjutor  of 
Burke  and  Fox  in  assailing  the  corruptions  of  the  court, 
and  defending  the  liberties  of  the  people.  He  was  to  be 
a  thorn  in  the  side  of  toryism. 

After  performing  some  minor  services  to  his  party,  he 
was  sent  to  the  House  of  Commons  as  a  member  for  the 
borough  of  Stafford,  in  October,  1780.  The  nation  was 
ruffering  under  the  calamities  of  the  American  war,  and 
Lord  North's  administration  was  assailed  with  every 
weapon  of  argument  and  invectiv^e,  by  an  opposition 
strong  in  popular  favor  and  aristocratic  connection,  but 
bitterly  hated  by  the  king.  Sheridan's  first  speech  was 
a  comparative  failure.  It  was  on  the  subject  of  a  petition 
complaining  of  the  undue  election  of  himself  and  his 
colleague.  He  launched  into  an  indignant  vindication 
of  his  constituents.  When  he  had  concluded,  Mr, 
Rigby,  a  member  of  the  tory  administration,  coolly 
ridiculed  his  elaborated  rage.  Sheridan  was  not  pre- 
pared to  reply  ;  out  Fox  came  to  the  rescue  of  his  friend 
and  inf.irmed  the  right  honorable  gentleman  that,  "  those 
ministerial  members  who  chiefly  robbed  and  plundered 
their  constituents  might  afterwards  affect  to  despise 
them,  yet  gentlemen  who  felt  properly  the  nature  of 
liieir  trust  would  always  treat  them  and   speak  of  them 


276  EJoAYS    AND    REVIt    /S. 

with  respect,"  In  an  assembly  where  such  language  as 
this  was  the  commonplace  of  debate,  it  was  evident  that 
a  man,  to  keep  his  position,  must  learn  to  think  quick 
and  strike  hard;  and  Sheridan  felt  that  he  had  much  to 
learn  before  he  could  rank  high  in  his  new  profession 
He  asked  his  friend  Woodfall  to  tell  him  candidly  what 
he  thought  of  his  first  attempt,  and  received  the  dis- 
couraging reply,  that  speaking  did  not  appear  to  be  in 
his  line,  and  he  had  much  better  have  adhered  to  his 
former  pursuits.     "  It  is  in   me,  however,"  said  Sher 

idan,  after  a  short  pause,  "  and  by ,  it  shall  come 

out ! "  From  this  moment  his  training  as  a  debater 
commenced,  and  he  spared  no  effort  to  perfect  himself  in 
his  art. 

He  had  many  personal  advantages  suitable  to  an 
orator,  —  a  powerful  frame,  a  face  which,  though  coarse 
in  some  of  its  features,  was  capable  of  great  variety  of 
expression,  a  deep,  clear  voice,  and  an  eye  of  piercing 
brilliancy,  which  never  winked.  Beneath  all  his  indo- 
lence and  sensuality,  he  possessed  a  desire  for  distinction, 
and  an  ambition  for  effect,  which  inspired  him  with 
sufficient  industry  to  master  the  details  of  particular 
questions,  and  prepare  sparkling  declamation  to  delight 
his  audience.  He  had  not  that  depth  of  feeling  and 
earnestness  of  purpose  by  which  the  great  orator  iden- 
tifies himself  with  his  subject ;  but  he  could  imitate 
those  qualities  admirably.  His  sly,  subtile  intellect  was 
always  on  the  watch  for  occasions  for  display,  and  he 
seized  them  with  exquisite  tact.  Besides,  he  had  a  long 
training  in  the  House  of  Commons ;  and  though  as  a 
debater  he  never  reached  the  first  rank,  from  his  lack  of 
perfect  readiness  and  his  want  of  familiarity  with  princi 
pies,  he  still   developed  in   the  end  a   sturdy  politica 


illCHARD    BRINSLEY    SHLRIUAN.  ^77 

ourage,  and  a  command  of  expedients,  which  enabled 
nim  to  meet  without  flinching  the  fiercest  attaclts  of  the 
treasury  ber^h,  and  to  bear  bravely  up  even  against  the 
arrogant  scorn  of  Pitt. 

During  the  first  few  years  of  Sheridan's  political  life, 
he  prod  :red  but  a  small  impression ;  but  he  was  steadily 
feeling  his  way  into  notoriety.  Enjoying  the  friendship 
of  Fox,  Burke,  and  all  the  prominent  whigs,  he  was 
insensibly  educating  himself  into  a  politician.  On  the 
overthrow  of  Lord  North's  administration,  and  the  forma- 
tion of  the  Marquis  of  Rockingham's,  in  March,  1782,  he 
•vas  appointed  one  of  tne  under-secretaries  of  state.  This 
office  he  occupied  but  four  months.  The  death  of  Lord 
Rockingham  split  the  whig  party  into  two  divisions.  One 
of  these,  the  Rockingham  confederacy,  led  by  the  Duke 
of  Portland  and  Mr.  Fox,  and  to  which  Burke  and 
Sheridan  belonged,  was  the  traditional  whig  party,  the 
heir  of  the  principles  of  the  Revolution,  and  was  sup- 
ported by  the  strength  of  the  old  whig  families.  It  was 
essentially  aristocratic  in  its  constitution,  and  derived 
much  of  its  power  from  the  weal.li,  stability,  and  parlia- 
mentary influence  of  the  great  whig  lords.  The  other 
was  the  remnant  of  Lord  Chatham's  party,  who  had 
combined  with  the  Rockinghams  in  the  opposition  to 
Lord  North,  and,  on  the  overthrow  of  the  latter,  had 
■^ceived  a  share  of  the  spoils.     It  was  led  by  Lord  Shei- 

njme,  father  to  the  present  Marquis  of  Lansdowne,  and 
was  more  popular  in  its  character  than  the  other  division 
I  f  the  VTjhigs.  George  the  Third,  who  bitterly  hated  the 
whig  oligarchy,  seized  the  opportunity  presented  by  the 
death  of  the  Marquis  of  Rockingham  of  dealing  it  a 
heavy  blow.  He  appointed  Lord  SI  dburne,  instead  of 
^he  Duke  of  Portland,  prime  i^unister.     Shelburne,  with- 


B78  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

out  consulting  his  colleagues,  accepted.  Fox,  Burke,  and 
the  other  "  old  whigs,"  immediately  resigned  and  wen 
into  opposition. 

There  were  thus  three  parties  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, the  tory  adherents  of  Lord  North  making  the 
third.  To  carry  on  the  government,  it  was  necessary 
for  two  of  these  to  unite.  After  some  negotiations  be- 
tween the  two  divisions  of  the  whigs,  which  resulted  in 
nothing,  Fox  formed  a  coalition  with  Lord  North,  and, 
after  a  short,  sharp  struggle,  came  into  power.  This  was 
the  most  imprudent  thing,  judged  by  its  effects,  ever  done 
by  the  whig  party ;  for  by  the  great  body  of  the  nation 
it  was  considered  a  scandalous  contempt  of  public  princi- 
ple, and  it  fixed  an  odium  on  Fox  and  Burke  from  which 
they  never  wholly  recovered.  Sheridan,  who,  from  his 
lack  of  strong  passions  and  high  purposes,  oft<"n  excelled 
his  greater  contemporaries  in  his  judgment  of  the  temper 
of  the  people,  strenuously  opposed  the  coalition.  He 
could  not  appreciate  the  objects  of  Fox  and  Burke,  but 
he  was  shrewd  enough  to  discover  the  inefiiciency  of 
their  means. 

In  the  new  ministry  Sheridan  was  made  secretary  of 
ihe  treasury,  and  gained  thereby  some  knowledge  of 
arithmetic,  which  he  often  paraded  afterwards  in  discuss- 
ing the  financial  measures  of  Mr.  Pitt.  The  coalition 
ninistry  did  not  long  exist ;  it  was  detested  both  ty  the- 
king  and  people.  The  most  ridiculous  and  atrocious 
falsehoods  were  manufactured  with  regard  to  the  objects 
of  its  leaders.  Its  fate  was  sealed  when  Mr.  Fox's  East 
India  Bill  was  introduced.  This  great  measure  passed 
the  House  of  Commons  by  a  large  majority,  but  it  was 
defeated  by  intrigue  and  treachery  when  it  came  to  the 
House  of  Lords.     On  the  failure  of  the  bill.  Fox  and  hi 


RICHARD    BRINSLEY    SHERIDAN.  579 

colleagues  were  instantly  dismissed  b}-  the  king,  although 
they  still  possessed  a  majority  of  votes  in  the  lower  house. 
William  Pitt,  then  just  entering  upon  his  political  career, 
was  made  prime  mini«+er,  —  fought  for  three  months, 
^gainst  a  majority  of  the  House  of  Commons,  one  of  the 
greatest  parliamentary  battles  on  record,  —  and  on  the 
dissolution  of  parliament,  and  the  election  of  a  new 
House  of  Commons,  found  himself  firmly  seated  in 
power.  Tlie  whigs  went  into  long  and  hopeless  oppo- 
sition. 

This  was  one  of  the  most  exciting  periods  in  English 
political  history,  but  its  consideration  belongs  rather  to 
the  biography  of  Burke  and  Fox  than  of  Sheridan.  One 
of  his  most  felicitous  retorts,  however,  occurred  in  an 
early  scene  of  this  hurried  drama.  While  Pitt  was 
serving  under  Lord  Shelburne,  Sheridan  fired  some 
epigrams  into  the  ministry',  which  would  have  shone 
bright  among  his  happiest  dramatic  sallies.  Pitt,  in  that 
vein  of  arrogant  sarcasm  for  which  he  was  afterwards  so 
much  distinguished,  informed  him,  that  if  such  dramatic 
turns  and  epigrammatic  points  were  reserved  for  their 
proper  stage,  they  would  doubtless  receive  the  plaudits 
of  the  audience  ;  but  the  House  of  Commons  was  not  the 
proper  scene  for  them.  Sheridan,  who  was  morbidly 
sensitive  to  any  allusion  which  connected  him  with  the 
stage,  determined  to  silence  such  insinuations  forever. 
He  felt,  he  said,  flattered  and  encouraged  by  the  right 
honorable  gentleman's  panegyric  on  his  talents,  and  if 
he  ever  engaged  again  in  the  compositions  to  which  he 
alluded,  he  might  be  tempted  to  an  act  of  presumption, 
— to  attempt  an  improvement  on  one  of  Ben  Jonson's 
best  characters,  —  the  character  of  the  ,  Ingry  Boy  in  The 
Alchemist.    Nothing  could  have  been  better  and  bitterer 


2S0  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

than  this  retort ;  and  it  pleased  Sheridan  so  much,  that 
he  made  a  cast  of  the  whole  play,  assigning  each  of  the 
prominent  opponents  of  his  party  a  character  in  harmony 
with  the  whig  doctrine  regarding  his  disposition.  Lord 
Shelburne  was  Subtle  ;  Lord  Thurlow,  Face  ;  Mr.  Dun- 
das,  Doll  Common;  Mr.  Rigby,  Sir  Epicure  Mammon  , 
General  Conway,  Dame  Pliant ;  and  His  Majesty  himself 
was  honored  with  the  part  of  Surly. 

In  an  extravagantly  burlesque  sketch  of  Sheridan, 
written  by  his  friend  Tickell  in  a  copy  of  The  Rivals, 
there  is  a  finely  ludicrous  account  of  the  popular  clamor 
against  the  leaders  of  the  coalition  ministry,  the  humor 
of  which  will  be  appreciated  by  all  who  know  the  politi- 
cal history  of  the  time,  and  the  means  used  to  prejudice 
both  king  and  people  against  the  cormection.  It  con- 
tains also  a  pertinent  allusion  to  Sheridan's  devotion  to 
the  bottle,  and,  through  the  exaggeration  of  caricature, 
enables  us  to  judge  of  his  habits  and  character  at  this 
period. 

"He  [Sheridan]  was  a  member  of  the  last  parliaments  that 
were  summoned  in  England,  and  signalized  himself  on  many 
occasions  by  his  wit  and  eloquence,  though  he  seldom  came  to 
the  House  till  the  debate  was  nearly  concluded,  and  never 
spoke  unless  he  was  drunk.  He  lived  on  a  fooling  of  great 
intimacy  with  the  famous  Fox,  who  is  said  to  have  conc/^rted 
with  him  the  audacious  attempt  which  he  made,  about  the  year 
1783,  to  seize  the  whole  property  of  the  East  India  Company, 
amounting  at  that  time  to  about  £12,000,000  sterling,  and  thtn 
to  declare  himself  Lord  Protector  of  the  Realm  by  the  title  of 
Carlow  Khan.  This  desperate  scheme  actually  received  the 
consent  of  the  lower  house  of  parliament,  the  majority  of  whoir 
were  bribed  by  Fox,  or  intimidated  by  his  and  Sheridan 
threats  and  violence  ;  and  it  is  generally  believed  that  the  revc 
Union  T^'ould  have  taken  place,  if  the  lords  of  the  king  s  be . 


RICHARD    BRINSLEV    SHERIDAN.  281 

chamber  had  not  in  a  body  surrounded  the  throne,  and  shown 
the  most  determined  resolution  not  to  abandon  their  posts  but 
with  their  lives.  The  usurpation  being  defeated,  parliament 
was  dissolved,  and  loaded  with  infamy.  Sheridan  was  one  of 
the  few  members  of  it  who  were  reelected;  —  the  burgesses  of 
Stafford,  whom  he  had  kept  in  a  constant  state  of  intoxication 
for  three  weeks,  chose  him  again  to  represent  them,  which  he 
yas  well  qualified  to  do." 

The  fact  of  his  reelection,  mentioned  in  the  last  sen- 
tence of  this  fine  caricature,  is  the  more  to  be  noted,  as 
a  hundred  and  sixty  members  of  the  old  parliament, 
favorable  to  Fox  and  North,  were  defeated.  These 
called  themselves,  with  much  truth  as  well  as  pleasantry, 
"  Fox's  Martyrs." 

In  following  Mr.  Fox  into  opposition,  Sheridan  soon 
Decame  one  of  his  most  efficient  supporters.  Mr.  Pitt's 
administration  found  in  him  a  powerful  opponent;  and 
he  was  especially  felicitous  in  ridiculing  the  pretensions 
of  the  tories,  and  galling  them  with  pointed  declamation. 
Incapable  of  projecting  leading  measures,  and  deficient 
m  those  higher  qualities  of  mind  which  made  Burke  and 
Fox  great  statesmen,  he  was  the  most  effective  of  parti- 
sans. When  pressed  to  speak  on  topics  which  required 
extensive  knowledge,  or  an  appeal  to  authorjt^es,  ne 
would  say  humorously  to  his  political  friends,  —  "You 
know  I'm  an  ignoramus,  but  here  I  am;  instruct  me, 
and  I  will  do  my  best."  As  a  man  of  wit,  —  of  ;vit  not 
only  as^a  power  of  mind,  but  as  a  quality  of  character, — 
he  detected  weak  points  in  argument,  or  follies  in  decla 
mation,  with  an  instinctive  insight.  In  the  habit  of 
recording  in  a  memorandum-book  his  most  ingenious 
thoughts  as  they  occurred  to  him,  ne  had  ever  at  hand 
'or.ie  felicities  to  vvea'^'5  into  every  speech.     A  few  of 


2S2  ESSAYS    Ai\D    REVIEWS. 

his  brilliant  ideas  absolutely  haunted  him,  and  he  took 
especial  pleasure  in  varying  their  application,  and  mak 
ing  them  tell  on  different  occasions.  One  of  these  ia 
well  known.  In  his  private  memoranda  he  speaks  of 
one  "who  employs  his  fancy  in  his  narratives,  and  keeps 
his  recollections  for  his  wit."  This  idea  was  afterwards 
directed  against  a  composer  of  music  turned  wine-mer- 
chantj  —  a  man,  he  said,  "who  composed  his  wine  and 
imporiod  his  music;"  —  and  was  finally  shot  off,  in  a 
seemingly  careless  parenthesis,  in  a  speech  in  reply  to 
Dandas, — a  right  honorable  gentleman,  ("who  depends 
on  his  imagination  for  his  facts,  and  his  memory  for  his 
wit,")  &c.  Again,  he  had  a  great  love  of  a  witty  met- 
aphor drawn  from  the  terms  of  military  science.  It  first 
appears  as  a  kind  of  satire  on  his  own  reputation  for 
extempore  jests.  "  A  true-trained  wit,"  he  says,  "  lays 
his  plans  like  a  general,  —  foresees  the  circumstances  of 
the  conversation,  —  surveys  the  ground  and  contingen- 
cies,—  and  detaches  a  question  to  draw  you  into  the 
palpable  ambuscade  of  his  ready-made  joke."  In  another 
memorandum  he  sketches  a  lady  who  afl^ects  poetry.  "1 
made  regular  approaches  to  her  by  sonnets  and  rebuses, 
—  a  rondeau  of  circumvallation,  —  her  pride  sapped  by 
an  elegy,  and  her  reserve  surprised  by  an  impromptu ; 
proceeding  to  storm  with  Pindarics,  she,  at  last,  saved 
the  further  effusion  of  ink  by  a  capitulation."  Exquisite 
as  this  is,  it  is  even  exceeded  in  the  shape  in  which  he 
presented  the  general  idea  in  the  House  of  Commons. 
Among  the  members  of  the  whig  party  who  had  "  rat- 
ted," and  gone  over  to  the  administration,  was  the  Duke  of 
Richmond,  a  man  who  had  been  foremost  in  the  extreme 
udical  ranks  of  his  former  connections.  In  the  sessiorj 
of  1786,  the  duke  brought  forward  a  plan  for  the  fortifi 


RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN.  SS3 

cation  of  dock-yards.  Sheridan  subjected  his  report  to 
a  scoiching  speech.  He  complimented  the  duke  for  the 
proofs  he  had  given  of  his  genius  as  an  engineer. 

"He  had  made  his  report,"  said  Sheridan,  "an  argument 
of  posts  ;  and  conducted  his  reasoning  upon  principles  of  trig- 
onometry as  well  as  logic.  There  were  certain  detached  data, 
liije  advanced  works,  to  keep  the  enemy  at  a  distance  from  the 
main  object  in  debate.  Strong  provisions  covered  the  flanks 
of  his  assertions.  His  very  queries  were  in  casements.  No 
impression,  therefore,  was  to  be  made  on  this  fortress  of  soph- 
istry by  desultory  observations ;  and  it  was  necessary  to  sit 
down  before  it,  and  assail  it  by  regular  approaches.  It  was 
fortunate,  however,  to  observe,  that,  notwithstanding  all  the 
skill  employed  by  the  noble  and  literary  engineer,  his  mode  of 
defence  on  paper  was  open  to  the  same  objections  which  had 
been  urged  against  his  other  fortifications  ;  that  if  his  adver- 
sary got  possession  of  one  of  his  posts,  it  became  strength 
against  him,  and  the  means  of  subduing  the  whole  line  of  his 
argument." 

From  1780,  the  period  of  his  entering  parliament,  to 
1787,  Sheridan,  though  he  had  spoken  often,  had  made 
no  such  exhibition  of  his  powers  as  to  gain  the  reputa- 
tion of  a  great  orator.  But  about  this  time  the  genius 
and  moral  energy  of  Burke  started  a  subject,  which  not 
only  gave  full  expression  to  his  own  great  nature,  but 
afforded  the  orators  of  his  party  a  rare  occasion  for  the 
most  dazzling  displays  of  eloquence.  We  refer,  of 
course,  to  the  impeachinent  of  Hastings.  In  all  matters 
relating  to  the  aliairs  of  India,  Burke  bore  sovereign 
sway  in  his  party.  It  was  he  who  projected  the  unsuc- 
cessful India  bill,  on  which  the  coalition  ministry  was 
wrecked.  Defeat,  however  was  iiut.  likely  to  damp  the 
energies  of  a  mind  like  his  when  it  had  once  fastened 
on  an  object ;  and  he  kept  alive  among  his  ;  ssociates 


2S4 


ESSAYS   AND   REVIEWS. 


the  determination  to  bring  the  spoilers  of  India  to  a  pub-' 
lie  account  for  their  misdeeds,  and  to  hold  them  up  to 
hatred  and  execration  as  worthy  successors  of  Cortes 
and  Pizarro,  in  plundering  and  depopulating  the  empire 
they  had  conquered.     Burke  was  the  only  man  in  Eng- 
land in  whom  the  prosecution  of  Indian  delinquency  and 
atrocity  was  a  fixed  passion  as  well  as  a  fixed  principle. 
By  his  ardor  and  complete  comprehension  of  the  subject, 
he  communicated  his  enthusiasm  to  his  party,  —  a  party 
which  always  appeared  best  when  it  had  public  criminals 
to  brand  and  public  corruptions  to  expose.     In  brino-incr 
forward  in  the  House  of  Commons  the  various  charges 
against  Hastings,  the  charge  relating  to  the  spoliation 
of  the  Begums  was  allotted  to  Sheridan,     He  was  prob- 
ably well   supplied    by   Burke   with   materials,  and   he 
resolutely  determined  to  give  the  subject  that  attention 
which  would  enable  him  to  make  an  effective  speech. 
Of  all  the  men  engaged  in  the  prosecution,  he  was  per- 
haps the  most  superficial  in  the  feeling  with  which  he 
regarded  the  crimes  against  which  he  was  to  declaim. 
His  conscience  and    passions   were   not    deeply  stirred 
against  the  criminal.     Hunt  says,  in  his  light  way,  that 
the   inspiration  of  Burke  in  this  matter  was  a  jealous 
hatred  of  wrong,  the  love  of  right  that  of  Fox,  "  and  the 
opportunity  of  making  a  display  at  somebody's  expense 
that  of   Sheridan,  without  any  violent  care  either  for 
right  or  wrong."     With  regard  to  the  latter,  at  least,  the 
remark  is  just.     We  can  conceive  of  nothing  more  ludi- 
crous than  the  idea  of  Sheridan  sitting  down  with  his 
bottle  and  documents,  and,  by  dint  of  hard  drinking  anC 
cautious  reading,  concocting  ingenious  epigrams  out  o 
the  frauds,  and  framing  theatrical  thunder  against  tli 
crimes,  of  the  great  oppressor  of  India. 


RICHARD    BRINSLEY    SHERIDAN.  285 

However,  the  event  was  such  as  to  reward  all  his  dili- 
gence. His  speech  was  made  on  February  7,  1787,  and 
occupied  five  hours  and  a  half  in  the  delivery.  All  par- 
ties agreed  in  its  extravagant  praise.  Fox  said,  that  all 
he  had  ever  heard,  all  that  he  had  ever  read,  when  com- 
pared with  it,  dwindled  into  nothing,  and  vanished  like 
vapor  before  the  sun.  Burke  and  Pitt  declared  it  to  be 
unequalled  in  ancient  or  modern  eloquence.  Logan, 
who  had  written  a  defence  of  Hastings,  went  that  even- 
ing to  the  House  with  the  strongest  prepossession  against 
Sheridan  and  in  favor  of  Hastings.  After  the  former 
had  been  speaking  an  hour,  he  observed  to  a  friend,  — 
"  All  this  is  declamatory  assertion,  without  proof."  When 
he  left  the  House,  at  the  end  of  the  speech,  he  exclaimed, 
—  "  Of  all  monsters  of  iniquity,  the  most  enormous  is 
Warren  Hastings."  Windham,  who  was  no  friend  to 
Sheridan,  said,  twenty  years  afterwards,  that,  in  spite  of 
some  faults  of  taste,  it  was  the  greatest  speech  within 
the  memory  of  man.  The  most  significant  sign  of  its 
effect  was  the  adjournment  of  the  House,  on  the  ground 
that  the  members  were  too  much  excited  to  render  a  fair 
judgment  on  the  case,  —  a  ground  that  Burke  very  hap- 
pily ridiculed.  The  practice  of  cheering  at  the  end  of  a 
good  speech  commenced  with  this  splendid  effort  of 
Sheridan. 

There  can  be  little  doubt  that  this  was,  on  the  whole, 
the  greatest  production  of  Sheridan's  mind.  There  is  no 
report  of  it  deserving  the  name.  Although  he  had  the 
speech  written  out,  he  would  never  publish  it.  With  his 
usual  sagacity,  he  judged  that  tne  tradition  of  its  effects 
would  give  him  more  fame  than  the  production  itself. 
To  account  for  his  success  is  difficult.  A  great  deal  is 
to  be  referred  to  the  materials  which  his  subject  fr?- 


2S6  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

sented  for  oratorical  display,  to  his  beautifiil  delivery  of 
particular  passages,  to  the  care  with  which  he  elaborated 
tiie  whole,  and  to  the  surprise  of  the  House  at  its  superi 
ority  over  all  his  previous  speeches.  He  most  certainly 
did  not  possess  that  deep  feeling  of  horror  and  detestation 
for  the  crimes  of  Hastings  which  animated  the  breast  of 
Burke.  Several  years  afterwards,  when  the  Prince  of 
Wales  introduced  him  to  Hastings,  he  had  the  meanness 
to  tell  the  latter  that  he  had  attacked  him  merely  in  the 
way  of  his  vocation  as  a  whig  politician,  and  trusted 
that  it  would  not  be  considered  as  a  test  of  his  private 
feelings.  Hastings  did  not  condescend  to  answer  him, 
but  turned  scornfully  away.  If  the  passion  was  thus  in 
a  great  measure  simulated,  it  certainlj^  was  not  expressed, 
as  far  as  we  can  judge  from  passages  here  and  there  in 
the  imperfect  printed  report,  in  a  style  very  much  above 
verbiage  and  fustian.  The  passages  which  would  have 
best  vindicated  the  eulogies  it  received  were  probably  the 
epigrammatic  portions  ;  and  these  must  have  been  of  sur- 
passing brilliancy,  not  only  from  the  ingenuity  of  Sheri- 
dan's mind,  but  from  the  startling  contrasts  with  which 
the  subject  itself  was  replete.  Thus,  the  most  felicitous 
passage  which  can  be  gleaned  from  the  printed  report  is 
that  in  which  reference  is  made  to  the  sordid  spirit  of 
trade  which  blended  with  all  the  operations  of  the  East 
India  Company  as  a  government,  and  disgraced  even 
their  boldest  achievements,  which  showed  the  meanness 
of  pedlers  and  the  profligacy  of  pirates.  "Alike,"  he 
says,  "  in  the  political  and  military  line,  could  be  observed 
auctioneering  ambassadors  and  trading  generals  ;  —  and 
thus  we  saw  a  revolution  brought  about  by  affidavits ;  an 
army  employed  in  executing  an  arrest;  a  town  besiegea 
on  a  note  of  hand ;  a  prince  dethroned  for  the  balance  of 


RICHARD    BRINSLEY    SHERIDAN.  28'V 

»n  account,  Thus  it  was  they  exhibited  a  government 
which  unite  I  the  mock  majesty  of  a  bloody  sceptre  and 
the  little  traffic  of  a  merchant's  counting-house,  —  wield- 
ing a  truncheon  with  one  hand,  and  picking  a  pocket 
with  the  other." 

On  the  3d  of  June,  17S8,  Sheridan,  having  been 
appointed  one  of  the  managers  of  the  impeachment  of 
Hastings,  delivered  before  the  Lords  in  Westminster 
Hall  another  oration  on  the  same  charge  he  had  so  bril- 
liantly urged  in  the  House  of  Commons.  The  fashion- 
able excitement  caused  by  this  great  state  trial  is  said  to 
have  reached  its  height  on  the  occasion  of  his  speech. 
Fifty  guineas  were  known  to  have  been  paid  for  a  ticket. 
Tlie  oration,  including  the  examination  of  evidence, 
occupied  four  days ;  and  although  it  did  not  wring  the 
hearts  and  overpower  the  understandings  of  the  audience, 
like  the  impassioned  and  comprehensive  orations  with 
which  Burke  opened  the  impeachment,  it  still  produced 
the  liveliest  sensation.  Burke,  whose  whole  soul  was  in 
the  success  of  the  cause,  and  who  was  delighted  with 
everything  which  helped  it  forward  in  popular  estimation, 
was  heated  with  admiration  during  its  delivery.  "  There," 
he  exclaimed  to  Fox,  while  listening  to  some  passages, 
"  there,  that  is  the  true  st3de ;  something  between  poetry 
and  prose,  and  better  than  either."  Fox  replied,  that  he 
thought  the  mixture  was  likely  to  produce  poetic  prose, 
or,  what  was  worse,  prosaic  poetry. 

On  the  fourth  day  Sheridan  strained  his  powers  to  the 
utmost  to  charm  and  dazzle  his  auditory.  In  referrmg 
to  one  crime  of  Hastings,  he  made  an  allusion  to  the 
great  historian  of  the  age.  Gibbon  was  present,  and  in 
his  Memoirs  has  recorded  the  pleasure  he  experienced  in 
receivirg  such  a  compliment  before  all  that  was  great 


I<i8S  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

and  noble  in  the  nation.  "  Not  in  the  annals  of  Tacitus," 
said  Sheridan,  "  not  on  the  luminous  page  of  Gibbon, 
could  be  found  described  such  a  monstrous  act  of  cruelty 
and  treachery."  At  the  conclusion  of  the  speech,  he 
sunk  back  in  the  arms  of  Burke,  as  if  overcome  with 
fatigue  and  emotion.  One  of  his  prosaic  whig  friends 
came  up  to  him  and  said,  —  "Why,  Sherry,  did  you 
compliment  that  tory.  Gibbon,  with  the  epithet  lumi- 
nous?" "I  meant  vo-lum'mous,'"  answered  Sheridan,  in 
a  hoarse  whisper. 

It  is  commonly  believed  that  the  speech  in  West- 
minster Hall  was  substantially  the  same  as  that  delivered 
in  the  House  of  Commons,  although,  in  its  diffusion 
through  two  days,  Fox  and  many  others  considered  it 
inferior  to  his  first  effort.  Burke,  however,  in  his  cele- 
brated eulogy  on  the  oration,  said,  that  from  poetry  up  to 
eloquence,  there  was  not  a  species  of  composition  of  which 
1  complete  and  perfect  specimen  might  not  be  culled  from 
t.  Now,  there  is  extant  a  verhathn  report  of  the  speech  ; 
vnd  Mr.  Moore,  in  his  Life  of  Sheridan,  has  quoted  all 
Jiose  passages  which  even  the  partiality  of  a  biographer 
could  pronounce  excellent.  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to 
say,  that  there  is  hardly  a  page  in  Burke's  own  works 
which  is  not  worth  the  whole  of  Sheridan's  fine  writino-, 
as  far  as  eloquence  can  be  estimated  from  the  written 
composition.  Burke's  extravagant  praise  is  to  be  referred 
partly  to  the  magnanimity  of  a  rival  orator,  emulous  to 
outdo  all  others  in  hearty  recognition  of  another's  merits, 
and  partly  to  his  intense  enthusiasm  for  every  effective 
speech  delivered  un  his  side  of  the  subject.  In  him  the 
success  of  the  impeachment  swallowed  up  every  desire 
for  personal  notoriety  or  fame  in  its  prosecution,  and  he 
naturally  exaggerated  the  merit  of  all  arguments  and  elo 


RICHARD    BRINSLEY    SHERIDAN.  289 

quence  which  ilhistratcd  or  enforced  his  own  views.  Sheri- 
dan cared  little  for  the  impeachment,  but  cared  much  for 
the  reputation  of  a  brilliant  speech.  Posterity  has  dealt 
fairly  with  both.  Burke  has  succeeded  in  fixing  an  ineradi- 
cable brand  of  guilt  on  the  brow  of  an  able  and  unprincipled 
public  criminal,  whose  great  capacity  and  great  services 
seemed  to  overawe  the  world's  moral  judgment,  and  has 
consigned  him  to  an  immortality  of  infamy  in  orations  as 
imperishable  as  literature.  Sheridan  has  succeeded  in 
gaining  the  reputation  of  an  infinitely  clever  and  dextrous 
speaker,  the  records  of  whose  speeches  are  read  only  in  a 
vain  attempt  to  discover  by  what  jugglery  of  action  such 
ingenious  combinations  of  words  ever  imposed  upon  an 
audience  as  the  genuine  language  either  of  reason,  imag- 
ination, or  passion. 

As  an  orator,  Sheridan  belongs  to  a  peculiar  class. 
He  was  certainly  the  most  artificial  of  speakers,  when 
his  ambition  led  him  to  imitate  Fox  in  impassioned 
declamation,  or  Burke  in  luminous  disquisition  and  im- 
aginative flights.  Moore,  in  a  strain  of  exquisite  flattery, 
celebrates  him  as  one 

"  Whose  eloquence,  brightening  whatever  it  tried, 
Whether  reason  or  fancy,  the  gay  or  the  grave, 
Was  as  rapid,  as  deep,  and  as  brilliant  a  tide 
As  ever  bore  Freedom  aloft  on  its  wave." 

Nothing,  as  Moore  well  knew,  was  more  incorrect  than 
the  impression  of  spontaneousness  which  this  eulogy  con- 
veys. The  private  memoranda  of  Sheridan's  speeches 
show  the  exact  place  wnere  the  "  Good  God,  Mr.  Speak- 
er," is  to  be  introduced  ;  and  exhibit  painfully  elaborated 
"bursts"  of  passion,  into  w^hich  it  was  his  intention  to 
be  "  hurried."     With   regard  to  imagery,  those  figures 

VOL.  II.  19 


;J90  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

whii.li  start  up  in  the  mind  of  the  true  orator  in  the 
excitement  of  the  moment,  instinct  with  the  life  of  the 
occasion,  were  in  Sheridan's  case  carefully  fashioned 
out  beforehand  and  bedizened  with  verbal  fnppery,  cold 
and  lifeless  in  themselves,  but  made  to  tell  upon  the 
audience  by  grace  and  energy  of  manner.  It  has  been 
repeatedly  noticed,  that  in  the  notes  of  Burke's  speeches 
nothing  is  observable  but  the  outline  of  the  argument 
and  the  heads  of  the  information ;  in  the  notes  of  Sheri- 
dan's, little  is  seen  but  images,  epigrams,  and  exclama- 
tions. 

Sheridan  has  been  often  classed  with  Irish  orators, 
that  is,  with  orators  having  more  feeling  and  imagination 
than  taste.  Irish  oratory,  it  is  very  certain,  is  not  con- 
fined to  Hibernians,  neither  does  it  comprehend  all  Irish 
speakers.  Its  leading  characteristic  is  sensibility.  But 
this  sensibility  is  good  or  bad,  according  to  the  mental 
powers  by  which  it  is  accompanied.  In  Burke,  it 
appeared  in  connection  with  an  understanding  and  an 
imagination  greater  than  any  other  orator  ever  possessed, 
and  second,  if  second  at  all,  only  to  Bacon  among  states- 
men. In  Grattan,  it  took  the  form  of  fiery  patriotism, 
stimulating  every  faculty  of  his  intellect,  and  condensing 
the  expression  of  thought  and  fancy  by  pervading  both 
with  earnest  passion.  In  Curran,  it  quickened  into 
almost  morbid  action  one  of  the  readiest  and  most  fertile, 
though  not  comprehensive  minds,  ever  placed  in  a  human 
brain.  In  Shiel,  it  is  seen  in  the  rapidity,  intensity,  and 
intellectual  fierceness,  given  to  the  expression  of  blended 
argument  and  fancy.  In  all  of  these,  sensibility  is  more 
or  less  earnest  and  genuine,  penetrating  thought  with 
fire,  and  thus  giving  it  force  to  the  will  as  well  as  per- 
suasion to  the  understanding.     In  another  class  of  Irish 


laCHARD    BRINSLEY    SHERIDAN.  29) 

orators,  of  wliich  Phillips  was  once  considered  the  repre 
sent;itive,  this  sensibility  is  little  more  than  the  boiling 
over  of  warm  blood,  without  corresponding  power  ot 
thought  or  imagination ;  and  it  runs  into  all  excesses 
of  verbose  declamation  and  galvanized  commonplace 
Execrable  as  it  is,  Jiowever,  and  doomed  to  instant 
damnation  in  a  tempos,  of  hisses  as  soon  as  it  is  printed, 
it  is  still  not  without  effect  upon  uncultivated  or  excited 
audiences.  This  style  of  oratory  is  sometimes  called 
imaginative,  although  its  leading  absurdities  are  directly 
traceable  to  a  want  of  imagination.  It  is  no  more  imag- 
inative than  Swift's  mode  reasoning  to  prove  that  Par- 
tridge was  dead  is  argumentative. 

Now,  to  neither  of  these  classes  of  Irish  orators  does 
Sheridan  belong ;  for  genuine  sensibility,  either  in  the 
expression  of  reason  or  nonsense,  does  not  enter  into  the 
composition  of  his  speeches.  He  feels  neither  like  Burke 
nor  like  Phillips.  In  serious  declamation,  he  simply 
attempts  an  imitation  of  intense  and  elevated  feeling ; 
and  his  passion,  as  artificial  and  as  much  made  up  aa 
the  thunder  of  Drury  Lane,  finds  suitable  expression  in 
a  diction  curiously  turgid,  in  meretricious  ornaments, 
and  in  a  style  of  imagery  plastered  upon  the  argument, 
instead  of  growing  out  of  it.  If,  as  a  speaker,  he  had 
used  this  florid  style  without  stint,  he  must  have  failed. 
We  believe  that  it  did  not  please  his  contemporaries 
much  more  than  it  does  posterity,  and  that  it  was  gen- 
I'.rally  held  by  them  to  bear  about  the  same  relation  to 
the  peculiar  merits  of  his  speeches,  which  the  fine  talk 
of  Falkland  and  Julia  bears  to  the  fun  of  Acres  and  the 
wit  of  Captain  Absolute.  What  placed  him  by  the  side 
of  Burke,  Fox,  and  Windham,  as  an  orator,  was  not  his 
earnestness  of  feeling,  but  his  equalling  them    in   the 


292  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

felicity  with  which  they  exposed  crime,  corruption,  soph 
istry,  ami  hypocrisy,  to  ridicule  and  contempt.  His  most 
successful  imitations  of  Burke  consist  in  the  employment 
of  verbal  pai'adoxes  and  ironical  fancies,  in  which  tho 
opinions  and  statements  of  an  opponent  are  exaggerated 
into  a  kind  of  gigantic  caricature,  and  then  scornfully 
eulogized.  Pretence  of  all  kinds  soon  collapses,  when 
subjected  to  this  ordeal  of  wasting  ridicule.  The  bubble 
bursts  at  once,  and  "  is  resolved  into  its  elemental  suds." 
As  far  as  we  can  judge  of  Sheridan's  great  speech  on 
the  Begums,  his  most  effective  weapon  of  attack  was  a 
sarcastic  mockery  of  Hastings's  assignment  of  patriotic 
motives  for  his  crimes,  an  epigrammatic  expression  of 
hatred  and  scorn  for  oppression  and  rapine,  and  a  singu- 
lar felicity  in  dragging  down  the  governor  of  a  vast 
empire  to  the  level  of  the  common  herd  of  profligates  and 
criminals,  bj^  connecting  his  greatest  acts  with  the  same 
motives  which  influence  the  pickpocket  and  the  cut- 
throat. By  bringing  the  large  conceptions  and  beneficent 
aims  which  should  characterize  a  ruler  of  nations  into 
startling  contrast  with  the  small  personal  objects  which 
animate  the  heroes  of  Hounslow  Heath,  he  had  an  oppor- 
tunity to  play  the  dazzling  fence  of  his  wit  with  the  most 
brilliant  effect.  Many  of  his  most  swollen  comparisons 
and  strained  metaphors  are  redeemed  from  absolute  con- 
tempt only  by  the  presence  of  this  mocking  spirit.  That 
his  great  strength  consisted  in  this  power  of  viewing 
everything  under  its  ludicrous  relations  is  seen  in  the 
rapidity  with  which  he  ever  extricated  himself  frcin  the 
consequences  of  failure  in  his  florid  flights.  Mr.  Law 
the  counsel  for  Hastings,  very  successfully  ridiculed  one 
of  the  hectic  metaphors  of  his  speech.  "  It  was  the  first 
time  in  his  life,"  r'^plied  Sheridan,  "he  had  ever  heard 


RICHARD    BRINSLEY    SHERIDAN.  293 

al  special  pleading  on  a  metaphor,  or  a  bill  of  indictment 
against  a  trope.  But  such  was  the  turn  of  the  learned 
counsel's  mind,  that  when  he  attempted  to  be  humorous, 
no  jest  could  be  found,  and  when  serious,  no  fact  was 
risible."  This  retort  is  worth  a  thousand  such  tropes  as 
occasioned  it. 

Up  to  the  impeachment  of  Hastings,  Fox,  Burke,  and 
Sheridan,  were  closely  united ;  but  the  illness  of  the 
king,  which  soon  followed,  brought  a  question  before 
parliament,  which,  while  it  seemed  to  promise  the  acces- 
sion of  the  whigs  to  power,  resulted  only  in  sowing  the 
seeds  of  distrust  among  their  leaders.  George  the  Third 
became  insane,  and  it  devolved  upon  the  legislature  to 
appoint  or  recognize  a  regent.  The  Prince  of  Wales,  a 
selfish  debauchee  and  spendthrift,  was  the  person  that 
would  naturally  be  appointed  ;  and  the  prince,  hating 
his  father  and  hated  by  him,  was  a  whig.  Mr.  Pitt  and 
the  tories  were  determined  to  restrict  his  prerogative ; 
the  whigs  struggled  to  have  him  endowed  with  the  full 
powers  of  majesty.  A  fierce  war  of  words  and  princi- 
ples was  the  consequen-^e,  in  which  Fox  and  Burke  gave 
way  to  unwonted  gusts  of  jnssion,  and  Burke,  especially, 
indulged  in  some  unwise  aUusions  to  the  king's  situation. 
Sheridan,  who  for  a  long  time  had  been  the  companion 
of  the  prince  in  his  pleasure^?,  and  in  some  degree  his 
igent  in  the  House  of  Commons,  was  suspected  by  his 
friends  of  intriguing  for  a  higher  office  than  his  station 
in  the  party  would  warrant.  The  king's  recovery  put 
an  end  to  the  debates,  and  to  the  hopes  of  each.  A  por- 
tion of  the  disappointment  which  Burke  and  Fox  ex- 
perienced was  transmuted  into  iislike  of  each  other,  each 
feeling  that  the  violence  of  the  discussion  had  injured 
♦he  party,  and  each  placing  the  blame  upon  the  other. 


294  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

Both  were  suspicious  of  Sheridan,  also,  and  doubted  hia 
honorable  dealing  in  the  matter. 

This  slight  feud  would  probably  have  been  soon 
healed,  if  the  breaking  out  of  the  French  Revolution 
had  not  given  an  immediate  occasion  for  all  the  discon- 
tent in  the  party  to  explode.  Burke,  from  the  first, 
looked  upon  that  portentous  event  with  distrust ;  Fox 
and  Sheridan  hailed  it  as  an  omen  of  good.  The  debate 
on  the  Army  Estimates,  in  1790,  was  the  first  public 
sign  of  the  schism  between  the  leaders  of  the  whigs. 
Sheridan,  who  seems  to  have  foreseen  that  Fox  and 
Burke  must  eventually  dissolve  their  connection,  took 
this  opportunity,  in  an  animated  but  indiscreet  speech 
against  Burke's  views,  to  hasten  the  separation ;  but  he 
only  succeeded  in  bringing  Burke's  wrath  down  upon  his 
own  head,  and  a  public  disavowal  of  their  friendship. 
The  progress  of  the  Revolution,  however,  soon  brought 
on  a  final  division  of  the  whig  party,  upon  which  a 
majority  of  its  most  influential  members  went  over  with 
Burke  to  the  support  of  the  ministry.  Fox  and  Sheri- 
dan, not  on  the  most  cordial  terms  themselves,  were  left 
to  battle,  in  the  House  of  Commons,  both  against  their 
old  enemies  and  a  powerful  body  of  their  old  friends. 

There  is  no  portion  of  Sheridan's  political  life  which 
is  more  honorable  than  his  services  to  freedom  during 
the  stormy  period  between  1793  and  1801.  It  was  a 
time  of  extreme  opinions.  The  French  Revolution  had 
unsettled  the  largest  intellects  of  the  agej  and  seditious 
and  despotic  principles  clashed  violently  against  each 
other.  The  tories,  to  preserve  order,  seemed  bent  ori 
destroying  freedom ;  and  the  radicals,  enraged  at  the 
attacks  on  freedom,  or  deluded  by  the  abstract  common- 
places of  the  French  schocj,   overlooked  order  in  thei 


RICHARD    BRINSLl::y    SHERIDAN.  295 

struggle  against  oppression.  Fox,  Sheridan,  Grey,  Tier- 
ney,  Erskine,  were  the  nucleus  of  a  legal  opposition  to 
the  ministry,  and,  at  the  head  of  a  small  minority  of 
whigs,  defended  the  free  principles  of  the  constitution 
against  the  court,  the  administration,  and  popular  clamor. 
Sheridan  adhered  generally  to  his  party,  though  he  con- 
trived to  escape  some  of  its  glorious  unpopularity  by 
giving  a  hearty  support  to  the  government  on  a  few  try- 
ing occasions.  His  various  speeches  dilring  this  period 
display  his  usual  brilliancy,  with  passages  here  and  there 
of  powerful  declam.ation.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  his 
dissipation  and  debts  were  on  the  increase.  His  patriot- 
ism was  not  allowed  to  dull  the  edge  of  his  sensuality. 
In  his  habits  of  mystification,  too,  in  the  preparation  of 
his  speeches,  he  displayed  his  customary  cunning.  In 
1794,  when  called  upon,  as  one  of  the  prosecutors  of 
Hastings,  to  reply  to  Mr.  Law,  he  spent  two  or  three 
days  in  such  close  application  to  reading  and  writing,  as 
to  complain  to  a  friend  of  having  motes  in  his  eyes. 
When  he  entered  Westminster  Hall,  he  was  asked  by 
one  of  his  brother-managers  for  his  bag  and  papers.  He 
answered,  that  he  had  none,  and  must  get  through  with 
his  speech  as  he  best  might ;  —  "he  would  abuse  Ned 
Law,  ridicule  Plumer's  long  orations,  make  the  court 
laugh,  please  the  women,  and,  in  short,  go  triumphantly 
through  his  task."  Much  to  the  surprise  of  the  man 
agers,  he  succeeded  admirably. 

In  1792,  Mrs.  Sheridan  died.  She  was  a  woman  of 
fine  mind,  warm  heart,  and  uncommon  beauty,  entering 
with  zeal  into  her  husband's  interests,  and  making  his 
home  as  happy  as  the  home  of  a  libertine  could  be,  who 
was  gifted  with  good-nature  rather  t'nan  principle,  with 
H.frectionate  sensations  rather  than  a  heart.      In   1795, 


%H>  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS 

Sheridan  married  again.  The  lady  was  Miss  Ogle 
daughter  of  the  Dean  of  Winchester,  and  represented 
as  young,  accomplished,  and  thoroughly  in  love.  Sheri- 
dan's powers  of  fascination  neither  dissipation  nor  the 
reputation  of  a  roue  could  weigh  down. 

During  this  stormiest  period  of  English  politics,  Sheri- 
dan preservfAl  the  same  virtue  in  his  speeches,  and  the 
same  self-indulgence  in  his  conduct,  which  characterized 
his  whole  life.  When  Pitt  resigned,  and  the  Addingtor 
ministry  was  formed,  in  1801,  he,  following  the  example 
of  a  few  other  whigs,  gave  that  feeble  government,  with 
its  toothless  toryism,  a  kind  of  support.  But  the  inflated 
incapacity  of  that  administration  could  not  fail  to  draw 
laughter  from  him,  the  prince  of  laughers.  Addington 
was  nicknamed  "  The  Doctor."  When  one  of  his  meas- 
ures was  suddenly  opposed  by  the  Scotch  members, 
usually  loyal  to  ministers,  Sheridan  set  the  House  of 
Commons  in  a  roar  by  addressing  the  premier  from  Mac- 
beth, —  "  Doctor,  the  thanes  fly  from  thee  !  "  On  the 
return  of  Pitt  to  power,  Sheridan  went  again  into  oppo- 
sition. Of  all  his  later  speeches,  his  most  celebrated  is 
one  which  he  made  in  1S05,  on  his  motion  for  repealing 
the  Defence  Act.  It  was  written  during  the  debate,  at  a 
coffee-house  near  Westminster  Hall,  and  was  full  of  the 
fiercest  attacks  upon  the  premier.  Pitt,  commonly  so 
insensible,  is  said  to  have  writhed  under  its  declamatory 
sarcasm ;  and  many  who  were  present  thought  they  dis- 
cerned at  times  in  his  countenance  an  intention  to  fix  a 
personal  quarrel  upon  his  flashing  adversary.  After  the 
death  of  Pitt,  in  1806,  and  the  formation  of  the  Fox  and 
^renville  ministry,  Sheridan  was  appointed  Treasurer 
if  the  Navy,  an  office  which  he  deemed  altogether 
oelow  his  deserts,  and  which  indicated  ;hat  his  position 


RICHARD   BRINSLEY    SHERIDAN.  297 

in  the  party  had  not  advanced  since  1789.  The  admin- 
istration was  dissolved  shortly  after  the  death  of  Fox, 
owing  to  the  determination  of  Lord  Grenville  to  push  the 
Catholic  claims.  Sheridan,  though  an  Irishman  himself, 
and  with  every  feeling  of  nationality  arrayed  on  the  side 
of  Catholic  emancipation,  was  still  vexed  at  the  ministry 
for  committing  itself  to  the  measure,  from  his  selfish  fear 
of  losing  office.  He  knew  the  king  would  not  consent  to 
it,  and  he  had  not  the  high  Roman  feeling  of  Lord  Gren- 
ville, w"ho  was  indisposed  to  shape  his  course  according 
to  the  path  marked  by  the  bigotry  of  the  monarch.  "He 
had  heard,"  Sheridan  said,  "  of  people  knocking  out  their 
brains  against  a  wall ;  but  never  before  knew  of  any  one 
building  a  wall  expressly  for  the  purpose." 

After  his  loss  of  office,  Sheridan's  efTorts  in  parlia- 
ment were  not  frequent.  He  became  engaged  in  various 
intriirues  regarding  the  formation  of  new  administra- 
tions, in  which  he  lost  the  confidence  of  his  political 
friends.  His  intimacy  with  the  Prince  of  Wales,  and 
his  declining  health  and  reputation,  seem  equally  to 
have  hurried  him  into  dishonorable  tricks  and  insinceri- 
ties. At  last,  in  1812,  rendered  desperate  by  the  loss 
of  his  theatrical  property,  embarrassed  in  purse,  and 
almost  bankrupt  in  character,  he  closed  a  brilliant  politi- 
cal life  by  an  act  of  treachery  which  will  ever  stain  his 
name.  On  the  death  of  Mr.  Perceval,  great  difficulty 
was  experienced  in  forming  an  administration.  There 
was  a  probability  of  the  vvhigs  again  coming  into  power  ; 
overtures  were  made  to  Lords  Grey  and  Grenville  to 
Jorm  a  ministry.  They  would  not  accept,  unless  the 
household  were  dismissed.  Lord  Yarmouth,  one  of  this 
number,  requested  Sheridan  to  convey  to  the  two  whig 
'ords  their  intention  to  resign,  rather  than  be  an  obstacle 


298  ESSAYS    AND   REVIEWS. 

to  the  formation  of  a  ministry.  Had  Sheridan  done 
tnis,  the  political  history  of  England  might  have  been 
essentially  different,  and  measures  of  reform  might  have 
dated  from  1812,  instead  of  1832.  But  he  betrayed  his 
trust,  partly  because  he  was  aware  that  me  Prince 
Regent  did  not  really  desire  the  accession  of  ihe  whigs, 
and  partly  because  he  disliked  the  inflexible  character 
of  the  lords  who  would  have  been  at  the  head  of  affairs. 
He  not  only  did  not  communicate  the  offer  of  Lord  Yar- 
mouth, but,  when  a  rumor  of  it  had  transpired,  offered 
to  bet  five  hundred  guineas  that  it  was  not  in  contem- 
plation. His  treachery  was  discovered  too  late  to  be 
repaired.  Lord  Liverpool,  "  commonplace  and  loving 
place,"  obtained  the  premiership,  and  held  it  during 
fifteen  years  of  tory  rule. 

Closely  following  this  shipwreck  of  character,  Sheri- 
dan lost  his  seat  in  parliament.  This  was  almost  equiv- 
alent to  a  loss  of  his  personal  liberty,  for  he  was  no  longer 
safe  from  arrest.  From  this  time  to  his  death,  he  gath- 
ered in  the  harvest  of  long  years  of  indolence,  extrava- 
gance, and  vice.  Disease  was  secretly  wearing  away  his 
originally  powerful  constitution.  His  face,  once  so  full 
of  intelligence  and  beauty,  had  become  deformed  and 
bloated  with  intemperance.  His  old  friends  looked 
coldly  upon  him.  Brilliant  powers  of  conversation  and 
fascinating  address  no  longer  characterized  the  faded 
wit  and  shattered  debauchee.  The  Prince  Regent,  fox 
whom  he  had  so  often  sacrificed  his  interest  and  honor, 
left  him  "  naked  to  his  enemies."  All  the  mortifications 
which  could  result  from  wounded  pride  and  vanity,  and 
the  sense  of  decaying  intellect,  thickened  upon  him.  His 
fuin  was  swift  and  sure.  His  creditors  seized  upon 
.verything  which  the  pawnbroker  bad  not  already  takea 


RICHARD    BRINSLEV    SHERIDAN.  299 

Eve.i  Reynolds's  portrait  of  his  first  wife  as  Saint  Cecilia 
passed  from  his  possession.  In  the  spring  of  1815,  he 
was  arrested  and  carried  to  a  sponging-house,  where  he 
was  retained  two  or  three  days.  His  life  sufficiently 
shows  that  his  sense  of  shame  was  not  quick,  but  he 
was  deeply  humiliated  at  this  arrest,  feeling  it  as  "a 
profanation  of  his  person." 

And  now  came  the  miseiy  of  his  last  scene.  He 
appeared  to  feel  that  his  life  was  drawing  to  a  close. 
To  some  sharp  remonstrances  from  his  wife  on  his  con- 
tinued irregularities,  he  replied  in  an  affecting  letter. 
"  Never  again,"  he  wrote,  "  let  one  harsh  word  pass 
between  us  during  the  period,  which  may  not  perhaps 
be  long,  that  we  are  in  this  world  together,  and  life, 
however  clouded  to  me,  is  spared  to  us."  His  last  ill- 
ness soon  followed.  Even  his  dying  bed  was  not  free 
from  the  incursions  of  writs  and  sheriffs.  He  was  ar- 
rested, and  would  have  been  taken  away  in  his  blankets, 
had  not  his  physician  threatened  the  officer  with  the 
consequences  of  committing  murder.  At  last,  on  the 
seventh  of  July,  1816,  in  his  sixty-fifth  year,  he  died. 

Then  came  the  mockery  of  a  splendid  burial.  Dukes, 
royal  and  noble,  bishops,  marquesses,  earls,  viscounts, 
right  honorables,  emulously  swelled  the  train  of  his 
funeral.  "  France,"  said  a  French  journalist  at  the 
time,  "  is  the  place  for  an  author  to  live  in,  and  England 
the  place  for  him  to  die  in."  In  the  Poet's  Corner  of 
Westminster  Abbey,  the  jnly  spot  remaining  unoccupied 
was  reserved  for  the  body  of  him  whose  death-bed  was 
not  safe  from  the  sheriff's  writ.  Tom  Moore,  in  a  fine 
strain  of  poetical  indignation,  published  just  after  Sheri- 
dan's death,  thus  cuttingly  refers  to  the  noble  Icxds  who 
'  honored  "  the  funeral :  — 


300  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

"How  proud  they  can  press  to  the  funeral  array 

Of  liim  whom  they  shunned  in  his  sickness  and  sorrow! 
How  bailiffs  may  seize  liis  last  blanket  to-day, 

Whose  pall  shall  be  held  up  by  nobles  to-morrow ! " 

The  task  of  lightening  the  misery  of  Sheridan's  last 
nours  was  left  to  such  commoners  as  Samuel  Rogers 
Thomas  Moore,  and  good  Doctor  Bain. 

The  moral  of  Sheridan's  life  lies  on  the  surface,  and 
we  shall  not  risk  any  commonplaces  of  ethical  horror  in 
commenting  upon  its  hollowness  and  its  sins.  The 
vices  for  which  he  was  distinguished  are  generally  repro- 
bated, and  their  position  in  the  scale  of  wickedness  is 
sufficiently  marked ;  but  they  are  not  the  darkest  kind 
of  vices.  We  are  not  of  that  number  who  select  him 
from  his  contemporaries,  and  expend  upon  his  follies  and 
errors  the  whole  strength  of  their  indignation.  Allow- 
ing hun  to  have  been  as  bad  as  his  nature  would  allow, 
we  believe  he  was  a  much  better  man  than  many  of  his 
contemporaries  who  are  commonly  praised  as  virtuous. 
The  man  who  brings  misery  upon  himself  and  his  fam- 
ily by  intemperance  and  sloth  is  justly  condeinned,  but 
he  is  innocent  compared  with  one  who,  from  bigotry  or 
lust  of  power,  would  ruin  or  injure  a  nation.  George 
the  Third  is  praised  as  a  good  king ;  but  the  vices  of 
Sheridan's  character  were  mere  peccadilloes  compared 
with  the  savage  vices  which  raged  and  ruled  in  the  heart 
of  his  Majesty.  In  a  moral  estimate  which  included  all 
grades  of  sin,  Sheridan  would  compare  well  even  with 
Lord  North,  William  Pitt,  or  Spencer  Perceval,  with  all 
their  social  and  domestic  merits.  The  American  war 
and  the  war  with  France  originated,  or,  at  least,  were 
continued,  in  a  spirit  which  approaches  nearer  to  the 
diabolical  than  the  sensuality  of  Sheridan ;  and  we  fee 


KICHARD    BRINSLEY    SHERIDAN.  301 

little  disposed  to  chine  in  with  that  morality  which 
passes  over  all  the  rats  and  liberticides,  the  servile  poli- 
ticians and  selfish  statesmen,  the  bad  and  bigoted  spend- 
thrifts of  blood  and  treasure,  during  a  whole  generatior , 
to  hurl  its  heaviest  anathemas  upon  one  poor,  weak,  vol- 
atile, brilliant,  and  hard-pressed  rout. 

But  while  we  thus  remember  that  there  are  nature:? 
which  have  contrived  to  indulge  darker  pat^sions  than  he 
ever  dreamed,  without  coming  under  the  ban  of  either 
historian  or  moralist,  and  while  we  therefore  have  little 
sympathy  with  one  class  of  Sheridan's  judges  and  critics, 
we  do  not  join  in  the  absurd  sentimentality  of  another 
class,  who  strive  hard  to  place  his  case  among  the  infirm- 
ities and  calamities  of  genius.  The  sources  of  his  errors 
were  not  those  which  have  sometimes  hurried  large  and 
unregulated  minds  into  evil,  and  there  is  something 
ridiculous  in  placing  him  by  the  side  of  the  Otways,  the 
Savages,  the  Chattertons,  the  Burnses,  and  the  Byrons. 
With  regard  to  liis  calamities,  there  is  hardly  another 
instance  in  literary  history  of  a  man  who  enjoyed  so 
much  fame  with  such  moderate  powers,  and  who  was 
enabled  to  run  so  undisturbed  a  career  of  sensuality  from 
manhood  to  within  three  years  of  his  death.  What 
commonly  goes  under  the  name  of  enjoyment  of  life  he 
had  in  full  measure,  not  only  without  the  check  which 
comes  from  means  limited  by  honest  scruples,  but  almost 
without  the  remorse  with  which  conscience  usually 
dashes  unhallowed  pleasure.  And  with  respect  to  the 
desertion  of  which  he  complained  in  the  last  years  of  his 
ife,  it  was,  as  far  as  regarded  his  political  connections, 
the  result  of  his  political  treachery ;  and  as  his  personal 
Criendships   sprang  from   the  fellowship  of  vice   rathe' 


302  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

than  feeling,  he  had  no  right  to  expect  that  the  rak.B8 
and  good  fellows,  his  companions  of  the  bottle  and  the 
debauch,  would  be  the  bankers  of  his  poverty,  or  the 
consolers  of  his  dying  hours. 


HENRY  FIELDING.' 

There  is  no  word  more  provokingly  equivocal  than 
history.  In  one  sense,  it  simply  indicates  a  department 
of  literature ;  in  another,  the  sum  and  substance  of  all 
departments.  He  who  should  read  all  the  so-called  his- 
torians of  the  world,  from  Herodotus  to  Hallam,  would, 
in  common  phrase,  be  considered  as  possessing  a  knowl- 
edge of  history  ;  but  in  respect  to  the  thing  itself,  he 
might  be  more  ignorant  of  many  ages  and  nations  than 
one  who  had  devoted  his  time  to  plays  and  novels.  In 
regard  to  the  history  of  England,  especially,  it  is  curious 
how  small  a  portion  of  our  realized  and  available  knowl- 
edge of  the  English  mind  and  people  is  derived  from  the 
standard  narratives  of  public  events.  When,  after  ex- 
hausting the  strictly  historical  department  of  English 
literature,  we  turn  to  its  works  of  imagination,  and  from 
these  to  the  numerous  trifles  in  poetry  and  romance 
w^hich  every  age  has  poured  forth,  we  discover  that  we 
are  increasing  our  historical  information,  while  we  are 
seemingly  gratifying  only  taste,  indolence,  or  whim. 
Indeed,  it  is  impossible  to  understand  the  causes  of 
England's  material  supremacy  in  any  summary  now  ex- 
tant of  the  persons  and  events  connected  witJi  its  differ- 

*  The  Works  of  Henry  Fielding,  with  a  Life  of  the  Aii-hor.  By  Tltc- a« 
Roscoe.  London  :  Henry  G.  Bohn  1843.  8vo.  pn.  1116.  —  iVorX4  ji»M-i>a» 
Review,  Jartuary,  1849. 


304         ,  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

ent  stages.  That  peculiar  combination  of  virtiies  and 
vices,  of  practical  sense  and  stubborn  prejudice,  which 
occurs  to  us  when  we  think  of  an  Englishman,  never 
was  obtained  from  Hume  alone.  The  literature  of  the 
country,  in  the  most  generous  meaning  of  that  word,  is 
therefore  a  portion  of  its  history,  conducting  us  close  to 
the  heart,  character,  and  external  costumo,  the  body  anu 
soul,  of  the  nation,  and  enabling  us  to  realize  the  people 
as  living  beings.  A  drama  by  Fletcher,  a  pamphlet  by 
Nash,  a  satire  by  Donne,  a  nov^el  by  Mrs.  Behn,  a  com- 
edy by  Congreve,  not  to  mention  the  stores  of  information 
in  Spenser,  Shakspeare,  Milton,  Dryden,  and  Pope,  may 
convey  more  real  historical  knowledge,  and  enable  us 
better  to  understand  England  in  its  manners  and  un- 
written institutions,  than  Holinshed  and  Carte,  than 
Oldmixon  and  Burnet.  A  person  whose  notions  of 
dignity  prevent  him  from  penetrating  into  such  minor 
avenues  of  letters  will  never  gain  much  more  than  the 
shell  of  history.  If  the  object  of  historical  studies  be 
thus  to  give  an  idea  of  a  past  age,  approaching  as  neai 
as  possible  in  vividness  to  that  which  we  have  of  our 
own,  then  certainly  no  student  of  the  eighteenth  century 
should  overlook  the  life  and  works  of  Henry  Fielding,  — 
dramatist,  lawyer,  journalist,  magistrate,  novelist,  and 
man  of  wit  and  pleasure  about  town.  Tom  Jones  and 
Joseph  Andrews  may  not  seem  of  so  much  importance 
as  George  II.  and  Sir  Robert  Walpole  ;  but  no  one  evei 
followed  the  adventures  of  the  former  without  acquiring, 
unconsciously,  a  vast  amount  of  information  shedding 
light  on  the  policy  of  the  latter. 

Of  all  the  English  authors,  the  most  exclusively  Eng- 
lish, the  two  into  whose  very  being  the  life  of  their  age 
<ind  country  passed  most  completely.,  are   Ben   JonsoD 


HENRY   FIELDING.  305 

and  Henry  Fielding;  and  no  person  can  be  pronounced 
Ignorant  of  England  wlio  has  studied  their  works,  and 
obtained  a  living  conception  of  their  personal  characters. 
Our  present  concern  is  with  Fielding,  who,  somewhat 
leficient  in  that  positiveness  and  dogmatism  of  the  Eng- 
lish character  which  appear  so  grandly  in  old  Ben,  and 
in  heedless  animal  spirits  suggesting  the  Irishman  rather 
than  the  Englishman,  still  in  mind  and  disposition  rep- 
resents that  basis  of  sensuality,  humor,  coarse  and  strong 
morality,  that  practical  grasp  of  things  in  the  concrete, 
and  that  thorough-going  belief  in  the  senses,  which  char- 
acterize the  genuine  Saxon.  Scott,  indeed,  thinks  that 
Fielding  can  hardly  be  relished  and  understood  by  per- 
sons not  habitually  conversant  with  old  English  life. 
Doubtless,  this  is  true  to  a  certain  extent;  but  we  can 
name  no  novelist  who  so  felicitously  exhibits  human 
nature  through  its  modification  of  English  nature,  or 
conveys  so  vivid  an  idea  of  both,  in  modes  so  universally 
appreciable. 

The  period  in  which  Fielding  lived  and  wrote  pre 
sented  a  society  richly  diversified  in  character  and  man 
ners,  and  affording  to  the  novelist  exhaustless  material 
of  humor  and  observation.  It  had  already,  in  Pope 
Swift,  Young,  Arbuthnot,  and  others,  found  its  satirists 
men  who  made  its  crimes  and  follies  the  butt  of  theii 
aggressive  wit ;  but  it  had  not  as  yet  been  mirrored  oi> 
^he  page  of  a  deep  and  genial  humorist,  combining  tht 
requisite  insight  with  the  requisite  toleration  to  represeni 
it  in  its  peculiar  life  and  costume.  The  profligacy  and 
levity  which  disgraced  the  higher  classes  had  been  par- 
tially  reflected  in  the  comedies  of  Congreve  ;  and  Van- 
brugh,  with  a  stronger  grasp  of  character,  had  brought 
up  Sir  Tunbelly  Clumsey  and  Sir  Francis  Wronghead 

VOL.  II.  20 


306  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

from  the  country,  to  introduce  them  to  the  Lord  Fop- 
pingtons  and  Sir  John  Brutes  of  the  town ;  but  the  man 
who  should  exhibit  church  and  state,  town  and  country, 
in  characters  at  once  national,  local,  and  individual,  and 
be  able  to  present  pictures  by  which  after  ages  might 
recognize  the  form  and  spirit  of  the  time,  was  yet  to 
appear.  Fielding  not  only  possessed  the  jovial  tempera- 
ment and  mental  power  to  perform  this  truthfully,  but 
the  vicissitudes  of  his  life  brought  him  face  to  face  with 
every  order  of  English  society.  Born  of  a  noble  family, 
but  thrown  at  an  early  age  into  the  world  to  make  his 
own  living,  he  knew  almost  every  form  of  poverty  and 
distress,  and  obtained  his  knowledge  of  mankind  by  the 
scientific  process  of  observation  and  experience.  He 
knew  equally  well  the  mansion  of  the  aristocrat  and  the 
garret  of  the  author,  the  palace  and  the  sponging-house, 
the  court  and  St.  Giles,  Westminster  Hall  and  Wapping, 
the  cathedral  and  the  Methodist  meeting,  the  manor- 
house  and  the  country  inn.  To  dine  with  the  Duke  of 
Roxburgh  or  his  Grace  of  Bedford  in  the  West  End,  to 
sup  with  Savage  or  Boyce  in  a  cellar,  —  to  converse 
with  Lord  Chesterfield  at  Pulteney's,  and  with  a  country 
coachman  at  an  ale-house  in  Dorsetshire,  —  to  hear  some 
member  of  the  great  whig  connection  expatiate  on  the 
blessings  of  the  Hanover  succession,  and  to  hear  some 
old  Jacobite  squire  roar  out  a  song  to  Charlie  over  the 
water,  after  the  fifth  bottle,  —  to  know  all  varieties  of 
fortune,  and  consequently  all  varieties  of  company,  and 
intensely  to  enjoy  everything  short  of  misery  itself, — 
was  the  common  experience  of  the  great  delineator  of 
English  character  and  manners.  No  other  author  of 
his  time  had  his  experience  of  life ;  and  his  experience 
would  have   converted  almost  any  other  author  into  a 


HENRY   FIELDING.  307 

ppitrire  satirist,  or  moody  misanthrope.  Towwouse 
Squire  Western,  Parsons  Adams,  Barnabas,  and  Trul- 
liber,  Dr.  Harrison,  Colonel  Bath,  Square,  Thwackiun, 
Bliful,  Alhvorthy,  Partridge,  Fanny,  Sophia  Western, 
Mis.  Slipslop,  Lady  Bellaston,  —  almost  every  form 
which  selfishness,  baseness,  levity,  licentiousness,  cleri- 
cal worldliness,  political  corruption,  as  well  as  honesty, 
innocence,  and  truth,  assumed  in  the  men  and  women 
of  his  age,  —  Fielding  knew  with  a  certainty  and  accu- 
racy almost  approaching  the  perfection  of  science.  And 
he  surveyed  the  whole  with  a  kind  of  inimitable  absence 
of  spleen  and  egotism,  more  wonderful  than  his  knowl- 
edge. His  works  represent  greater  varieties  of  rascality 
and  hard-heartedness  than  those  of  almost  any  other 
writer ;  vet  he  never  leaves  the  impression  that  human 
nature  is  to  be  given  over  as  beyond  redemption,  or  that 
the  world  is  effete. 

Fielding  was  born  April  22,  1707.  He  was  the  son 
of  Edmund  Fielding,  an  officer  Avho  served  with  some 
distinction  under  Marlborough,  and  who  eventually  was 
promoted  to  the  rank  of  lieutenant-genera'  By  his 
father's  side,  Henry  was  connected  with  the  noble  fam- 
ilies of  Kingston  and  Denbigh,  and  thrpugh  the  latter 
with  the  renowned  house  of  Hapsburg,  from  which 
Austria  has  drawn  her  emperors.  Gibbon,  in  that  burst 
of  enthusiasm  for  literary  fame  in  which  he  exhorts  the 
noble  Spensers,  enriched  by  the  trophies  of  Marlborough, 
to  consider  still  "  the  Fairy  Queen  as  the  most  precious 
jewel  in  their  coronet,"  also  finely  alludes  to  Fielding's 
noble  descent.  "  Far  different,"  he  says,  "  have  been 
the  fortunes  of  the  English  and  German  divisions  of  the 
family  of  Hapsburg ;  the  former,  the  knights  and  sheriffs 
v»f  Leicestershire,  have  slowly  risen  to  the  dignity  of  a 


308  ESSAYS   AND    REVIEWS. 

peerage ;  the  latter,  the  emperors  of  Germany  and  kings 
of  Spain,  have  threatened  the  liberty  of  the  Old  and 
invaded  the  treasures  of  the  New  World.  The  succes- 
sors of  Charles  V.  may  disdain  their  brethren  of  Eng- 
land ;  but  the  romance  of  Tom  Jones,  that  exquisite  pic- 
ture of  human  manners,  will  outlive  the  palace  of  the 
Escu*-ial  and  the  imperial  eagle  of  Austria."  This  con- 
fident prophecy  seems  in  the  present  year  to  be  in  the 
course  of  fulfilment. 

Fielding  received  the  rudiments  of  education  from 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Oliver,  a  coarse,  avaricious,  and  narrow- 
minded  priest,  whom  he  afterwards  immortalized  in  the 
character  of  Parson  Trulliber.  From  the  hands  of  this 
clerical  bear  he  was  removed,  when  he  arrived  at  a  suit- 
able age,  to  Eton,  where  he  distinguished  himself  for 
his  quickness  of  parts,  and  laid  the  foundation  of  that 
classical  knowledge  which  he  always  loved,  and  which 
he  was  so  fond  of  parading  even  in  his  novels.  At  this 
school  he  formed  the  acquaintance  of  many  boys  who 
afterwards  became  eminent,  and  among  others  of  Lord 
Lyttelton,  Mr.  Fox,  and  Mr.  Pitt.  It  was  his  father's 
intention  to  make  him  a  lawyer,  and  accordingly  he  was 
sent  from  Etoi>  to  Leyden,  in  his  eighteenth  year,  to 
study  the  civil  law.  How  he  conducted  himself  abroad 
^e  are  not  informed  ;  but  launched,  as  he  was,  into  life 
ni  the  heyday  of  youth,  and  with  a  constitution  which 
could  bear  any  excesses  into  which  his  irresistible  animal 
spirits  might  impel  him,  we  have  always  thought  that 
his  Imowledge  of  law  was  principally  obtained  in  experi- 
encing the  consequences  of  its  violation.  His  biogra- 
phers are  careful  to  inform  us  that  he  studied  hard  with 
the  celebrated  Professor  Vitriarius,  and  some  of  them 
mournfully  regret  that  his  father  could  not  sustain  the 


HENERY    FIELDING.  309 

sxpense  of  carrying  him  through  a  course  of  study  so 
auspiciously  commenced,  and  which  was  winning  him 
the  approbation  of  the  learned  Thebans  of  Leyden. 
The  probability  is,  that  Fielding's  expenses  were  consider- 
ably larger  than  properly  belong  to  a  simple  devotee  of 
knowledge,  and  that  General  Fielding  had  to  support 
the  bon  vivant  as  well  as  the  scholar.  At  any  rate,  his 
father's  remittances  failed  after  he  had  enjoyed  the  ines- 
timable companionship  of  Professor  Vitriarius  for  a  period 
short  of  three  years,  and  he  was  compelled  to  return  to 
England.  It  cannot  be  doubted  that  he  returned  with 
some  knowledge  of  the  world  and  of  the  classics,  with  a 
keen  sense  of  the  pleasurable,  and  a  disposition  to  gratify 
it  in  the  elegant  recreations  suitable  to  a  rake  and  a 
blood  ;  but  of  his  civil  law  we  hear  no  more. 

General  Fielding  was  married  four  times,  and  had  a 
large  and  constantly  increasing  family,  which  in  respect 
to  number  was  compared  to  King  Priam's ;  and  accord- 
ingly, on  Fielding's  arrival  in  England,  he  found  his 
good-natured  father  perfectly  willing  that  he  should  be 
his  own  master,  and  willing  also  to  settle  on  him  £200 
X  year,  —  an  allowance,  however,  which  was  never  paid. 
Thus,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  Fielding  was  cast  upon  the 
world  of  London,  with  nobody  to  assist  or  check  him, 
and  with  five  particularly  ravenous  senses  to  provide 
wilh  objects  of  necessity  or  indulgence.  He  immediately 
renewed  his  aciijuaintance  with  many  of  his  schoolboy 
friends,  and  plunged  resolutely  into  the  dissipation  of  the 
time.  Witli  a  handsome  person,  a  constitution  of  iron, 
a  fund  of  spirits  which  glorified  the  hour  and  disregarded 
the  future,  with  brilliant  conversational  powers  and 
irresistible  bonkonwiie  of  manner,  he  soon  became  popu- 
lar, and  ranked  among  his  associates  all  the  good  fellows 


'no  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

of  the  day,  from  the  noble  profligate  to  the  no'idy  author. 
But  this  kind  of  life  requires  money,  and  Fielding  prob- 
ably soon  found  that  there  is  a  limit  to  the  patience 
of  unpaid  landladies  and  the  liberality  of  fashionable 
friends,  and  that  he  must  choose  an  occupation.  It  is 
needless  to  say  that  Professor  Vitriarius  and  the  civil 
law  were  forgotten,  and  that  his  thoughts  were  at  once 
turned  to  the  stage,  as  presenting  the  best  means  of 
solving  the  problem,  how  a  young  adventurer,  whose  wit 
and  sprightliness  were  the  talk  of  London  society,  could 
gratify  an  insatiable  love  of  pleasure  without  heaping  up 
a  portentous  mountain  of  debts.  At  the  early  age  of 
twenty,  therefore,  he  became  a  playwright,  having  no 
alternative,  as  he  expressed  it,  but  to  be  a  hackney 
writer  or  a  hackney  coachman. 

His  first  comedy.  Love  in  Several  Masques,  was  pro- 
duced in  1707.  Though  it  succeeded  The  Provoked 
Husband,  which  had  attracted  large  audiences  for  twenty- 
eight  nights,  it  still  met  with  a  moderate  share  of  suc- 
::ess.  Wilks,  Gibber,  Mrs.  Booth,  and  Mrs.  Oldfield,  did 
all  that  good  acting  could  do  in  promoting  the  author's 
interest.  When  published,  the  play  was  dedicated,  in 
an  elegant  preface,  to  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montague, 
who  was  a  connection  of  Fielding's.  The  author  may 
be  considered  to  have  started  fair  in  his  dramatic  career, 
with  nothing  to  prevent  his  reaching  the  most  profitable 
summits  of  theatrical  excellence,  provided  his  genius  was 
calculated  for  the  drama.  Congreve,  at  about  the  same 
age,  had,  under  somewhat  similar  circumstances,  laid 
the  foundations  of  his  fortune  in  The  Old  Bachelor. 
But  Love  in  Several  Masques  indicates  none  of  Con- 
greve's  original  merit.  It  is  a  well-written  imitation  of 
the  latter's   style,  bearing  about  the  same  relation  to  its 


HENEY    FIELDING. 


311 


uiodil  A\hich  Hayley  bears  to  Pope,  or  the  Right  Honor- 
alle  John  Wilson  Croker  to  Scott.  In  character,  plot, 
and  diction,  it  is  but  a  repetition  of  the  established  the- 
atrical commonplaces  of  that  period.  In  the  throng  of 
affected  similes  and  ingenious  comparisons,  which  the 
author  forces  into  his  dialogue  to  make  it  seem  brilliant, 
we  look  in  vain  for  one  touch  of  Fielding's  peculiar 
genius,  as  afterwards  evinced  in  his  novels.  The  play- 
simply  exhibits  fashionable  life  after  the  approved  fashion. 
The  beau  is  "  everything  of  the  woman  but  the  sex,  and 
nothing  of  the  man  beside  it ;"  the  loi;d  considers  "  beauty 
as  the  qualification  of  a  mistress,  fortune,  of  a  wife," 
"  virtue  so  scarce  as  not  to  be  worth  looking  after,  and 
beauty  so  common  as  not  worth  the  keeping ;  "  and  the 
brisk  town  wit  of  the  play,  with  the  usual  cant  of  his 
function,  swears  that  a  charming  woman,  divested  of  her 
fortune,  is  like  "  Beau  Grin  out  of  his  embroidery,  or 
my  Lady  Wrinkle  out  of  her  paint."  The  dialogue  is 
smart  and  glib  rather  than  witty,  with  a  continual  effort 
after  brilliancy.  The  only  thing  which  distinguishes  the 
play  from  the  hundred  forgotten  productions  of  its  school 
is  an  occasional  touch  of  humanity  or  hearty  sentiment, 
proving  that  the  best-humored  and  most  joyous  man  in 
Great  Britain  could  not  altogether  forget  his  nature,  even 
when  cramped  in  the  most  artificial  of  styles.  There  is 
something  amusing  in  the  moral  tone  of  the  prologue, 
whether  we  consider  the  freedom  of  the  particular 
comedy  it  introduces,  or  the  coarseness  of  the  plays 
which  succeeded  it.  It  expresses,  in  rather  indifferent 
verse,  the  ethical  object  which  at  that  time  every  fifth- 
rate  professor  of  ribaldry  and  licentiousness  affected  to 
have  in  view,  however  scandalous  might  be  his  language 
and  dramatis  persoiUB  :  — - 


\n2 


ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 


"  No  private  character  these  scenes  expose  ; 
Our  bard  at  vice,  not  at  the  vicious,  throws. 
***** 

Humor  still  free  from  an  indecent  flame. 

Which,  should  it  raise  your  mirth,  must  raise  your  shame. 

Indecency 's  the  bane  to  ridicule. 

And  only  charms  the  libertine  or  fool. 

Nought  shall  offend  the  fair  one's  ears  to-day, 

Which  they  might  blush  to  hear,  or  blush  to  say.  ' 

Fielding  was  now  fairly  entered  upon  his  occupatior 
of  man  of  letters,  and  during  the  ensuing  ten  yearf 
produced  eighteen  comedies  and  farces.  The  Temple 
Beau,  which  succeeded  Love  in  Several  Masques,  was 
brought  out  in  1729.  The  introductory  scene,  between 
Lady  Lucy  Pedant  and  Lady  Gravely,  is  a  good  speci- 
men of  malignant  genteel  raillery;  and  the  scene  in 
which  Sir  Harry  Wilding  breaks  into  his  son's  chambers 
in  the  Temple,  and  discovers  the  peculiar  kind  of  law 
which  his  darling  student  is  practising,  is  finely  ludi- 
crous ;  but  the  play  is  generally  uninteresting  and  devoid 
of  originality.  With  these  two  comedies,  Fielding 
seems  to  have  bid  adieu  to  the  school  of  Congreve,  and 
resolved  to  try  a  kind  of  writing  which  less  tasked  his 
fancy,  and  which  he  could  despatch  in  more  haste. 
Tom  Thumb,  a  grand  caricature  of  the  popular  tragedies 
of  the  day,  including  those  of  Dryden,  and  aiming  to 
produce  laughter  by  the  broadest  gushes  of  drollery, 
appeared  in  1730,  and  still  keeps  the  stage.  In  a 
similar,  though  even  coarser  style,  is  the  Covent  Garden 
Tragedy,  produced  in  1732.  The  Coffee-House  Politi- 
<tian,  which  Arthur  Murphy  gravely  praises,  could  have 
been  written  only  when  the  author  was  drunk.  The 
fumes  of  gin  and  tobacco,  we  think,  can  be  detected  it 
most  of  his  plays  after  he   had  been  two  years  at  work 


HENRY    FIELDING.  313 

tv  ^  Win  v.i.  J  brazen  vulgarity  about  them  which 
outmi^ll^  bugi^'eot..  the  pot-house.  The  year  1732 
yunjis  cO  aave  beeu  trie  most  industrious  period  of  his 
xramaiic  life.  ThvJ  iVlock  Doctor,  and  The  Miser,  from 
Moliere,  The  Debauc.uj;s,  and  The  Covent  Garden 
Tragedy,  were  all  produ^bl  in  this  year.  The  wretch- 
edness of  the  profession  Le  Aad  chosen  is  perhaps  suffi- 
ciently indicated  in  the  ch-c^/ccer  of  the  entertainments 
he  provided  for  the  public ;  la.  ia  the  dedication  of  The 
Universal  Gallant,  in  1734,  to  IL3  Duke  of  Marlborough, 
he  indicates  another  evil.  This  c  anedy  was  condemned 
with  particular  emphasis ;  and  we  complains  bitterly 
that  there  were  some  young  gentiei^wn  about  town  who 
"  made  a  jest  of  damning  plays.'  lie  speaks  of  the 
cruelty  of  this  kind  of  wit,  especially  db  vrxercised  upon  a 
person  like  himself,  depending  on  lii&  Jabors  for  his 
bread  ;  and  he  adds,  that  "  he  must  be  a*,  uihuman  crea- 
ture, who  would,  out  of  sport  and  wanton tif.is,  prevent  a 
man  from  getting  a  livelihood  in  an  inotfen:?tfe  way,  and 
make  a  jest  of  starving  him  and  his  family. 

About  this  time,  he  seems  to  have  conceii-.f;d  the  idea 
of  being  a  manager  himself,  the  ill  success  01  his  plays 
probably  rendering  the  great  theatres  indisposed  \o  receive 
his  productions.  Accordingly,  in  1735,  he  assetnbled  a 
company  of  discarded  actors,  under  the  name  of  tn^  Great 
Mogul's  Company  of  Comedians,  to  perform  his  owri  dra- 
mas at  the  small  theatre  in  the  Haymarket.  Though  this 
project  hardly  met  with  any  more  success  than  liis  other 
contrivances  for  a  living,  failure  does  not  appear  to  have 
damped  his  miraculous  s.*iirits,  or  to  have  impaired  the 
elastic  vigor  of  his  mind.  At  this  theatre,  we  believe, 
he  brought  out  his  two  political  satires,  Pasquin,  in  1736, 
and  The  Historical  Register,  in  1737,  which,  in  them- 


314  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

selves  of  no  great  importance,  were  the  cause  of  the 
celebrated  measure  of  Walpole  to  restrain  the  licentious- 
ness of  the  stage,  by  giving  discretionary  power  to  the 
Lord  Chamberlain  to  refuse  a  license  for  any  play  which 
did  not  meet  his  approbation. 

This  measure  created  at  the  time  a  great  deal  of  clamor 
among  the  dramatists,  and  has  been  the  cause  of  a  great 
deal  of  cant  among  them  since.  During  its  passage 
through  parliament,  Lord  Chesterfield  delivered  a  power- 
ful speech  against  it.  It  seems  to  us  that  the  merits  of 
the  bill  must  be  considered  apart  from  the  motives  of  the 
framers,  in  order  to  form  a  correct  judgment  upon  it. 
That  some  check  was  needed,  there  can  be  no  doubt. 
The  evil  which  the  bill  assumed  to  remedy  was  one 
which  strikes  at  the  very  root  of  society.  To  outrage 
morality  and  decency  in  public  places  of  amusement,  to 
have  a  legalized  system  of  entertainments  whose  only 
tendency  was  to  make  drunkards,  blasphemers,  and  liber- 
tines, might  be  very  justly  considered  as  demanding  the 
interference  of  the  civil  power  even  by  those  who  would 
give  the  largest  liberty  to  the  publication  of  irreligious 
and  immoral  opinions.  Fielding  himself,  in  1729,  indi- 
cated the  necessity  of  some  regulation  of  the  stage,  when, 
in  mourning  over  the  degradation  of  authorship,  he  ex- 
claimed,— "  Be  profane, be  immodest,  be  scurrilous;  and 
if  you  would  ride  in  a  coach,  deserve  to  ride  in  a  cart." 
In  truth,  the  obligation  of  every  ruler  to  enforce  decency, 
if  he  cannot  enforce  morality,  called  for  some  measure  to 
check  the  profligate  stupidity  and  comic  irreligion  which 
avery  broken-down  Grub-street  hack  might  indite  over 
his  morning  gin,  to  feed  a  vulgar  appetite  for  brutal 
Tierriment. 

But  important  as  this  measure  eventually  proved  in 


HENRY    FIELDING.  315 

purifying  tlie  stage,  nothing  can  be  more  ludicrous  than 
to  praise  Sir  Robert  Walpole,  as  Coxe,  his  biographer, 
gravely  professes  to  do,  for  his  agency  in  the  reform.  He 
was  undoubtedly  a  inan  not  destitute  of  virtues,  and  when 
we  consider  that  he  was  a  hunted  politician,  it  must  be 
acknowledged  he  'vas  singularly  free  from  cruel  and 
malignant  passions  ;  but  it  would  be  absurd  to  allege  a 
regard  for  decency  as  the  motive  of  any  of  his  acts.  He 
had  always  been  accustomed  to  the  English  theatre  is  it 
had  been  left  by  Charles  II., — the  theatre  of  Wycherley, 
Vpnbrugh,  Congreve,  and  Farquhar,  —  and  doubtless 
considered  libertinism  as  a  prominent  element  in  every 
brilliant  play.  Besides,  he  was  himself  utterly  destitute 
of  delicacy  and  refinement.  His  talk,  it  is  well  known, 
was  confined  to  two  subjects,  politics  and  women  ;  and 
he  conversed  about  the  latter  in  a  style  to  shock  even 
the  gentlemen  of  a  generation  famous  for  its  preference 
of  plain  noun  substantives  to  cautious  circumlocutions. 
His  summer  revelries  at  Houghton  made  him  the  nui- 
sance of  the  neighborhood ;  and  if  indecency  and  pro- 
fanity, inspired  by  "potations  pottle  deep,"  were  heard 
anywhere  with  peculiar  emphasis  and  shameless  vocifer- 
ation, it  was  at  the  board  of  England's  prime  minister. 
The  truth  is,  he  cared  nothing  about  the  license  of  the 
stage  until  it  attacked  his  darling  power.  Fielding  might 
have  violated  every  morality  and  decency  of  civilized  life, 
without  being  much  disturbed  by  Sir  Robert ;  but  in 
Pasquin  and  The  Historical  Register,  he  exhibited  and 
3xposed  the  political  corruption  of  the  day ;  and  Wal- 
Dole  then  found  it  was  high  time  to  put  a  stop  to  the 
demoralization  of  the  drama. 

But  if  Walpole  s  motive  was  not  a  hatred  of  licentious- 
aess,  neither  vvas  Fielding's  motive  a  hatred  of  political 


^16  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

corruption.  He  had  a  grudge  against  the  prime  minister. 
In  1730,  he  liad  solicited  his  patronage,  wiiich  Walpole 
with  his  usual  coniempt  for  literary  men,  had  refused 
In  1731,  he  dedicated  The  Modern  Husband  to  him, 
exhorting  him  to  protect  the  Muses,  reminding  him  that 
heroe<;  and  statesmen  had  ever  been  the  patrons  of  poets, 
and  adjurmg  him  to  add  to  his  many  noble  and  patriotic 
qualities  the  glory  of  being  the  protector  of  literature. 
The  flattery  and  the  advnce  Walpole  seems  equally  to 
have  disregarded.  Accordingly,  Fielding  became  a  pa- 
triot, as  the  word  was  understood  at  that  day; — that  is 
he  joined  those  politicians  who  were  indignant  at  the 
corruption  which  they  could  not  themselves  wield,  or  in 
whose  fruits  they  could  not  participate.  Walpole  bought 
all  the  patriots  he  feared,  and  defied  or  ridiculed  the  rest. 
He  never  patronized  literary  merit;  but  if  he  discovered 
a  writer  able  to  do  the  dirty  work  of  political  pamphleteer- 
ing without  any  scruples  whatever,  —  a  man  whose  mind 
presented  the  harmonious  combination  of  tact,  impudence, 
shamelessness,  and  talent  for  influencing  the  mob,  —  he 
was  ready  to  give  such  a  person  the  full  enjoyment  of 
the  luxuries  of  the  secret-service  fund.  Thus,  he  paid 
£10,000,  at  difTerent  periods,  to  that  "intermediate  link 
between  man  and  the  baboon,"  the  profligate  Arnall.  As 
far  as  Fielding's  political  opinions  were  concerned,  he 
seems  to  have  viewed  Sir  Robert  with  great  admiration. 
[n  his  latest  work,  he  speaks  of  him  as  "  one  of  the  best 
of  men  and  of  ministers." 

We  have  seen  that,  during  the  ten  years  that  Fielding 
was  a  dramatist,  he  averaged  about  two  plays  a  year. 
The  composition  of  these  occupied  but  a  comparatively 
small  portion  of  his  time.  ■  He  would  sometimes  contract 
t3  write  a  farce  or  comedy  in  the  evening,  pass  a  good 


HENRY    FIELDING.  317 

portion  of  the  night  convivially,  and  bring  in  a  whole 
scene  the  next  morning,  written  on  the  paper  in  which 
his  darling  tobacco  was  wrapped.  His  plays  never  met 
with  any  brilliant  success,  and  failed  to  provide  for  his 
wants.  He  said  himself  that  he  left  off  writing  for  the 
stage  at  the  period  when  he  should  have  begun.  There 
are  some  indications  of  his  genius  scattered  over  his 
comedies,  though  but  little  evidence  is  given  of  dramatic 
art.  As  a  playwriglit,  he  never  reached  the  success 
which  was  afterwards  obtained  by  such  men  as  Holcroft, 
Morton,  and  Reynolds. 

There  are  few  memorials  extant  of  his  mode  of  life 
during  these  ten  years  of  contrivances  and  failures.  That 
he  plunged  heedlessly  into  dissipation,  and  led  the  life  of 
a  man  of  wit  and  pleasure  about  town,  there  can  be  no 
doubt.  As  an  author,  he  was  distinguished  from  his 
brother  hacks  by  having  the  social  position  of  a  gentle- 
man. He  repeatedly  received  pecuniary  assistance  from 
Lyttelton  and  other  friends,  who  were  delighted  with  his 
vivacity  and  good  fellowship.  Lyttelton  said  that,  in 
conversation,  he  had  more  wit  and  humor  than  all  the 
celebrities  of  Queen  Anne's  day  put  together.  Bui 
though  thus  assisted  by  the  patronage  of  rich  and  titled 
acquaintances.  Fielding  must  hav^e  participated  more  or 
less  in  the  vices,  miseries,  and  humiliations,  of  the  liter- 
ary drudge  of  the  time,  —  the  hireling  of  managers  and 
booksellers,  the  vagabond  by  practice  and  author  by  pro- 
fession. The  appreciation  which  the  government  had  of 
literary  men  is  perhaps  best  indicated  in  the  remark  of 
George  I.  to  Lord  Hervey,  who  had  some  sins  of  verse 
lying  heavy  on  his  soul :  —  "Do  not  write  poetry,  —  'tis 
beneath  your  rank  ;  leave  that  to  little  Mr.  Pope  ;  —  't  is 
Uia  trade."     A  man  who,  in  that  day,  adopted  authorship 


J]8 


ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 


as  a  means  of  livelihood,  was  immediately  associated  with 
one  of  the  most  curious  bodies  of  men  of  which  we  have 
any  record; — the  clan  of  Grub-street  hacks,  so  remorse- 
lessly gibbeted  by  Pope.  During  the  reigns  of  George  1. 
and  George  II.,  it  was  very  difficult  for  a  man  of  genius 
to  escape  this  most  miserable  of  social  grades.  As  soon 
as  he  fell  into  the  clutches  of  a  bookseller,  he  had  passed 
through  that  gate  over  which  was  written,  "Let  those 
who  enter  here  leave  Hope  behind."  He  had  joined  that 
lean  anu  squalid  band  of  litterateurs, 

"  Who  must,  like  lawyers,  either  starve  or  plead, 
And  follow,  right  or  wrong,  where  guineas  lead  "  ;  — 

men  on  whose  brows  was  blazoned  the  sign,  "  Mind  to 
be  let; "  who  were  slaves  to  every  stupid,  ignorant,  and 
unprincipled  publisher,  engaged  in  supplying  a  demand 
for  frivolity,  scurrility,  indecency,  and  sedition  ;  and  who, 
with  the  tastes  of  scholars  and  the  wages  of  draymen, 
ended  at  last  in  being  the  most  dissolute  and  the  most 
wretched  of  day-laborers.  To  be  the  tenant,  at  best,  of 
an  attic  or  a  cellar;  to  be  hunted  by  enraged  unpaid 
tradesmen ;  to  wait  for  weeks  in  the  antechamber  of  a 
lord  to  exchange  a  dedication  for  a  guinea ;  to  have  all 
the  spirit  of  a  man  extinguished  by  the  necessity  of 
creeping  and  cringing  before  a  vulgar  taskmaster;  to 
know  want  and  need  in  all  their  bitterest  forms;  to  pass 
at  evening  from  the  back-room  of  a  Curll,  an  Osborne,  or 
a  Mist,  with  a  worn-out  brain  and  a  jaded  body,  and  rush 
to  purchase  a  few  hours'  pleasure  in  a  low  debauch ;  to 
exercise  more  ingenuity  in  dodging  bailiffs  and  bilking 
'andladies  than  in  writing  poems  or  pamphlets;  —  this 
tvas  the  existence  of  many  an  enthusiast  who  came  up  tc 
London  filled  with  aspu'ations  after  fame,  and  expecting 


HENRY    FIELDING.  319 

the  fortune  ol"  Pope  or  Swift.  Squalor  and  beggary  were 
the  commonplaces,  of  an  author's  life.  "  Could  I  have 
guessed,"  Faj'S  the  aggrieved  Mrs.  Moneywood  to  Lack- 
less,  "that  I  had  a  poet  in  my  house?  Could  I  have 
looked  for  a  poet  under  lace  clothes  ? "  And  the  good 
/ady  goes  on  to  mourn  that  her  floor  is  all  spoiled  with 
ink,  her  windows  with  verses,  and  her  door  almost  beaten 
down  with  duns. 

But  connected  with  these  scholars  and  men  of  talent 
there  were  all  varieties  of  quacks,  pretenders,  panders,  and 
buffoons.  Authorship  was  the  last  refuge  of  the  outcasts 
of  society,  —  of  liars,  libellers,  and  vagabonds,  —  of  penny, 
half-penny,  and  two-penny  blasphemers  and  reprobates, 
—  of  men  who,  having  tried  every  other  petty  contriv- 
ance of  knavery  to  filch  a  livelihood,  at  last,  on  the  small- 
est possible  capital  of  grammar  and  sense,  descended  to 
the  trade  of  writing.  Any  one  who  will  condescend  to 
glance  over  the  minor  literature  of  the  period  between 
1720  and  1770,  for  the  purpose  of  catching  the  general 
character  of  its  composition,  will  be  surprised  at  the 
extreme  lowness  of  its  moral  and  intellectual  tone.  Its 
stupidity  is  absolutely  amazing,  amid  all  its  efforts  to  be 
bright  by  the  grace  of  ribaldry  and  scurrility ;  and  it 
becomes  difficult  at  times  to  consider  such  lifeless  slang 
and  imbecile  indecency  as  the  product  of  the  human 
mind.  Scattered  over  Fielding's  various  works  are 
allusions  to  this  gang  of  litterateurs,  who  degraded 
authorship  even  below  the  level  to  which  poverty  and 
improvidence  had  reduced  it,  by  offering  to  do  the  work 
of  scholars  and  men  of  ah'lity  for  a  smaller  pittance  than 
the  miserable  one  they  already  received.  Such  was  the 
Ignorant  charlatan  that  Booth,  in  the  novel  of  Amelia, 
meets  in  the  sponging-house,  collecting  subscriptions  foi 


320  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

a  translation  of  Ovid,  of  whose  language  he  is  as  ig- 
norant as  a  Scuth-Sea  islander.  The  scenes,  in  The 
Author's  Farce,  between  Bookweight  and  his  hacks 
Dash,  Quibble,  Blotpage,  and  Scarecrow,  are  probably 
almost  literal  transcripts  of  the  truth.  We  extract  a 
specimen,  as  it  tells  the  story  better  than  any  words  of 
ours  could  do."* 

*  Book.  Fie  upon  it,  gentlemen!  what,  not  at  your  pens?  Do  you  con 
sider,  Mr.  Quibble,  that  it  is  a  fortnight  since  your  Letter  to  a  Friend  in  the 
Country  wa3  published  ?  Is  it  not  high  time  for  an  Answer  to  come  out  ?  At 
this  rate,  before  your  Answer  is  printed,  your  Letter  will  be  forgot.  I  love  to 
keep  a  controversy  up  warm.  I  have  had  authors  who  have  writ  a  pamphlet 
in  the  morning,  answered  it  in  the  afternoon,  and  answered  that  again  at 
night. 

Quib.  Sir,  I  will  be  as  expeditious  as  possible;  but  it  is  harder  to  writs 
on  this  side  the  question,  because  it  is  the  wrong  side. 

Book.  Not  a  jot.  So  far  on  the  contrary,  that  I  have  known  some  authors 
f.hoose  it  as  the  properest  to  show  their  genius.  Well,  Mr.  Dash,  have  you 
done  that  murder  yet  ? 

Dash.  Yes,  sir,  the  murder  is  done;  I  am  only  about  a  few  moral  reflec 
tions  to  place  before  it. 

Book.  Very  well :  then  let  me  have  the  ghost  finished  by  this  day  se'n 
night. 

Dash.  What  sort  of  a  ghost  would  you  have  this,  sir?  the  last  was  a  pale 
one. 

Book.  Then  let  this  be  a  bloody  one.  Mr.  Quibble,  you  may  lay  by  that 
life  which  you  are  about,  for  I  hear  the  person  is  recovered,  and  write  me 
out  proposals  for  delivering  five  sheets  of  Mr.  Bailey's  English  Dictionary 
every  week,  till  the  whole  be  finished.  If  you  do  not  know  the  form,  you 
may  copy  the  proposals  for  printing  Bayle's  Dictionary  in  the  same  manner. 
The  same  words  will  do  for  both. 

Enter  Index. 

Ho,  Mr.  Index,  what  news  with  you  ? 

Index.     I  have  brought  my  bill,  sir. 

Book.  What's  here?  For  fitting  the  motto  of  Risurn  tevieatis  Amici  to  j 
dozen  pamphlets,  at  sixpence  for  eacii,  six  shillings;  for  Omnia  vincit  Amoi 
el  nos  cedan.us  Amori,  sixpence;  for  Difiicile  est  Satyram  non  scribere,  six- 
pence. Hum !  hum !  hum !  —  sum  total  for  thiriy-six  Latin  mottoes,  eighteej 
shillings ;  diXo  English,  one  shilling  and  ninepence ;  ditto  Greek,  four  —  fi>a 
shillings.     These  Greek  mottoes  are  excessively  dear. 

Ind.  If  you  have  them  cheaper  at  either  of  llie  universities,  I  will  giv 
»eu  mine  for  nothing. 


HENRY    FIELDING.  321 

When  we  consider  the  wretchedness  and  knavery 
tvhich  were  associated  in  the  public  mind  with  the  pro- 
fession of  literature,  it  is  not  wonderful  that  such  men  as 
'Ford,  in  the  reign  of  Charles  I.,  and  Congreve  and  Hor- 

Book.  You  shall  have  your  money  immediately  ;  and  pray  remember  ihal 
I  must  have  two  Latin  seditious  mottoes,  and  one  Greek  moral  motto,  for 
pamphlets,  by  to-morrow  morning. 

Q,uib.  I  want  two  Latin  sentences,  sir, — one  foi  page  the  fourth  in  the 
l^raise  of  loyalty,  and  another  for  page  the  tenth  in  praise  of  liberty  and 
properly. 

Dash.  Tlie  gho.st  would  become  a  motto  very  well,  if  you  would  bestow 
one  on  him. 

Book.     Let  me  have  them  all. 

Ind.  Sir,  I  shall  provide  tliem.  Be  pleased  to  look  on  that,  sir,  and  print 
rae  five  hundred  proposals  and  as  many  receipts. 

Book.  "  Proposals  for  printing  by  subscription  a  New  Translation  of  Cicero 
Of  the  Nature  of  the  Gods,  and  his  Tusculan  Questions,  by  Jeremy  Index, 
Esq."  I  am  sorry  you  have  undertaken  this,  for  it  prevents  a  design  of 
mine. 

Ind.  Indeed,  sir,  it  does  not ;  for  you  see  all  of  the  bonk  that  I  ever  intend 
lo  publish.     It  is  only  a  handsome  way  of  asking  one's  friends  for  a  guinea. 

Book.     Then  you  have  not  translated  a  word  of  it   perhaps. 

Ind.     Not  a  single  syllable. 

Book.  Well,  you  shall  have  your  proposals  forthwith :  hut  I  desire  you 
would  be  a  little  more  reasonable  in  your  bills  for  the  future,  or  I  shall  deal 
with  you  no  longer;  for  I  have  a  certain  fellow  of  a  college,  who  ofTers  to  fur- 
nish me  with  second-liand  mottoes  out  of  the  Spectator  for  twopence  each. 

I?id.  Sir,  I  only  desire  to  live  by  my  goods ;  and  I  hope  you  will  be  pleased 
lo  allow  some  difTerence  between  a  neat  fresh  piece,  piping  hot  out  of  the 
classics,  and  old,  threadbare,  worn-out  stuff,  that  has  passed  through  every 
pedant's  mouth,  and  been  as  common  at  the  universities  as  their  drabs. 

SCENE  V.  —  BooKWEiGHT,  Dash,  QtJiEBLE,  Blotpage,  Scarecrow. 

Scare.    Sir,  I  have  brought  you  a  libel  against  the  ministry. 

Book.  Sir,  I  shall  not  take  anything  against  them  ;  for  I  have  two  in  tho 
press  already.  lAside. 

Scare.    Then,  sir,  I  have  an  Apology  in  defence  of  them. 

Bock.    That  I  shall  not  meddle  with  neither;  they  don't  sell  so  well. 

Scare.  I  have  a  translation  of  Virgil's  iEneid,  with  notes  on  it,  if  we  can 
•jgree  about  the  price. 

Book.     Why,  what  price  would  you  have? 

Scare.    You  shall  read  it  first;  otherv/ise,  how  will  you  know  the  value' 

Book.  No,  no,  sir,  I  never  deal  tha^  way  — a  poem  is  a  poem,  and  a  pam 
ohlel  a  pamphlet,  with  me.  Leak  ye,  sir,  I  don't  like  your  title-page  ;  how 
VOL.  II.  21 


J22  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

ace  Walpole  at  a  later  period,  men  of  fine  powers,  but 
also  of  little  vanities,  should  have  shrunk  from  the  accu- 
sation of  authorship,  and  desired  to  be  considered  in  their 
mortal  capacity,  as  gentlemen,  rather  than  in  their 
immortal,  as  writers.  By  the  inevitable  law  of  associa- 
tion, a  man  rises  or  falls  in  public  estimation  exactly 
according-  to  the  condition  and  conduct  of  the  class  to 
which  he  belongs;  and  as  a  class,  English  authors  have 
not  been  considered  respectable  until  a  comparatively 
late  period.  This  is,  of  course,  a  satire  on  English  soci- 
ety, rather  than  on  its  literary  men ;  but  ludicrous  as  the 
statement  may  sound,  we  believe  it  is  accurate.  At 
any  rate,  Fielding  was  relieved  from  the  drudgery  of  his 
own  tasks,  the  companionship  of  dissolute  associates,  and 
all  those  corrupt  influences  which  attached  to  the  writer 
of  his  time,  by  an  important  event,  which  he  and  his  best 
friends  were  inclined  to  deem  his  salvation.     This  was 


ever,  to  oblige  a  young  beginner,  I  don't  care  if  I  do  print  it  at  my  own 
expense. 

Scare.     But  pray,  sir,  at  whose  expense  sliall  I  eat? 

Book.  At  wliose?  Wliy,  at  mine,  sir,  at  mine.  I  am  as  great  a  friend  to 
learning  as  tlie  Dutcli  are  to  trade:  no  one  can  want  bread  witli  me  wlio  will 
earn  it;  therefore,  sir,  if  you  please  to  take  your  seal  at  my  table,  here  will 
be  everything  necessary  provided  for  you :  good  milk  porridge,  very  often 
twice  a  day,  which  is  good  wholesome  food  and  proper  for  students  ;  a  trans- 
lator, too,  is  what  I  want  at  present,  my  last  being  in  Newgate  for  shop- 
liftin?.  The  rogue  had  a  trick  of  translating  out  of  the  shops  as  well  as  the 
langu  iges. 

Scare.  But  I  am  afraid  I  am  not  qualified  for  a  translator,  for  I  understand 
no  language  but  my  own. 

Book.     What,  and  translate  Virgil  ? 

Scare.     Alas  !  I  translated  him  out  of  Dryden. 

Boo/c.  Lay  by  your  hat,  sir,  —  lay  by  your  hat,  and  take  your  seat  imme- 
Jialely.  Not  qualified!  —  thou  art  as  well  versed  in  thy  trade  as  if  ;hou 
had.:it  labored  in  my  garret  these  ten  years.  Let  me  tell  you,  friend,  you  will 
have  more  occasion  for  invention  than  learning  here.  You  will  be  obliged  to 
ranslate  books  out  of  all  languages,  e.specially  French,  that  were  never  printeo 
m  any  language  whatsoever. 


HENRY    FIELDING.  323 

his  marriage,  in  1736,  to  a  beautiful,  amiable,  and  accom- 
plished younof  lady,  by  the  name  of  Cradock,  who,  in 
addition  to  her  other  virtues,  possesst  d  a  fortune  of 
£1500.  Fielding's  mother,  dying  about  this  time,  left 
him  a  small  estate  in  Dorsetshire,  worth  £200  a  year. 
He  accordingly  forswore  Bacchus  and  Momus,  the  mid- 
night debauch  and  the  green-room,  and  went  \vith  his 
wife  to  his  estate  in  the  country,  with  the  determination 
of  reforming  his  life,  and  devoting  lis  time  to  study,  lit- 
erature, and  domestic  pursuits.  But  he  had  no  sooner 
arrived  at  his  new  home  than  his  natural  improvidence, 
extravagance,  and  vanity,  led  him  into  a  style  of  expense 
suitable  only  to  a  rich  country  squire.  Living  among 
his  superiors  in  fortune,  he  became  emulous  at  once  to 
rival  them  in  his  mode  of  living.  He  was  by  no  means 
an  aristocrat.  The  Earl  of  Denbigh  once  asked  him  the 
reason  of  their  spelling  the  family  name  differentl}^  the 
earPs  branch  placing  the  e  before  the  i,  and  Fielding's 
branch  the  i  before  the  e.  "  I  can't  tell,  my  lord,"  was 
the  philosophic  reply,  "  except  it  be  that  my  branch  of 
the  family  first  learned  how  to  spell."  But  now  that  he 
was  a  landholder  and  country  gentleman,  Fielding  seems 
to  have  had  his  nobility  roused  ;  for  was  it  not  intolera- 
ble that  a  man  of  the  family  of  Denbigh  and  Hapsburg 
should  be  excelled  in  ostentation  by  the  Squire  Westerns 
and  Sir  Tunbelly  Clumseys  of  his  neighborhood  ?  In- 
stead, therefore,  of  devoting  himself  to  composition,  he 
dashed  into  the  hilarities  and  hospitalities  of  English 
country-life  ;  kept  his  coach,  his  dogs,  his  horses,  his 
servants  in  yellow  liveries  his  open  house,  and  free 
table  ;  and  in  less  than  three  yoars  he  was  a  beggar, 
ivith  a  constitution  shattered  by  seisual  indulgence,  and 
a  wife  and  family  dependent  on    lim  for  sapport.     To 


324  ESSAYS    AND    KEVlEWb. 

these  years,  however,  we  owe  his  knowledge  of  rural  life 
and  character,  and  to  his  ruin  the  novels  in  which  it  was 
embodied.  As  soon  as  he  found  himself  incapable  of 
continuing  his  country  life,  he  at  once  escaped  from  the 
censures  and  reproaches  of  his  friends  and  acquaintances, 
—  who,  having  assisted  in  his  downfall,  of  course  bitterly 
assailed  his  improvidence,  —  and  went  directly  to  Lon- 
don, with  the  intention  of  studying  law.  He  entered 
himself  as  a  student  in  the  Temple  ;  alternately  studied 
hard  and  drank  hard ;  and,  after  the  usual  term  of  pro- 
bation, was  called  to  the  bar.  But  he  was  unsuccessful 
as  a  lawyer,  partly  owing  to  the  distrust  of  attorneys, 
who  hesitated  about  giving  important  cases  to  a  wit  and 
a  believer  in  the  bottle,  and  partly  to  the  wild  habits  of 
dissipation  which  still  clung  to  him,  and  prevented  him 
from  givijig  his  serious  and  undivided  attention  to  any 
subject.  Even  his  attendance  on  his  profession,  desul- 
tory as  it  was,  was  soon  interrupted  by  fits  of  the  gout, 
which  now  began  their  remorseless  work  on  his  tough 
and  solid  frame.  He  gave  up  law  in  disgust,  and  returned 
to  his  original  occupation  of  man  of  letters.  He  poured 
forth  in  rapid  succession  a  series  of  fugitive  pieces,  to 
provide  for  the  wants  of  the  hour.  He  thought  also  of 
resuming  his  connection  with  the  stage,  and  wrote  nis 
farce  of  Miss  Lucy  in  Town  for  that  purpose ;  but  the 
Lord  Chamberlain  discerned  in  it  an  intention  to  hold 
up  a  man  of  quality  to  ridicule,  and  refused  his  license. 
We  believe,  also,  that  he  produced  at  this  time  his  farce 
of  Eurydice.  Its  fate  is  sufficiently  indicated  on  its  title- 
page,  being  published,  not,  in  the  usual  phrase,  "  as  it 
was  acted,"  but  "  as  it  was  d — mn'd,  at  the  Theatre 
Royal,  Drury  Lane." 

But  the  time  was  approaching  when  his  genius  couL' 


HENRY    FIELDING.  325 

Ind  some  rit  expression  of  the  power  and  richness  it 
lad  attained  through  his  manifold  experience  of  life. 
We  owe  his  novel  of  Joseph  Andrews  to  a  lucky  acci- 
dent. In  1740,  Richardson  published  Pamela.  Before 
this  period,  prose  fiction  had  hardly  occurred  to  any 
writer  of  eminence  as  affording  an  opportunity  for  the 
acquisition  of  fame  or  money.  Nonsense,  stupidity,  and 
obscenity,  or,  at  best,  such  moderately  clever  and  im- 
moderately licentious  fictions  as  those  of  Mrs.  Behn  and 
Mrs.  Manley,  monopolized  romance.  Novels  were  below 
plays  and  newspapers  in  respect  to  literary  rank.  In- 
deed, Richardson  himself  did  not  contemplate  writing  a 
story  when  he  commenced  Pamela.  A  bookseller,  who 
had  learned  his  talent  for  epistolary  composition,  induced 
him  to  prepare  a  book  of  letters  for  the  benefit  and  in- 
struction of  those  who  found  the  task  of  conducting  a 
tender  or  friendly  correspondence  to  be,  what  Fuseli's 
fop  found  the  reading  of  Milton,  "  an  exceedingly  tough 
business."  He  commenced  his  work  with  this  humble 
purpose ;  but  soon  adopted  the  idea  of  giving  to  it  the 
interest  of  a  story,  and  in  three  months  produced  Pamela. 
The  success  of  this  novel  was  of  that  peculiar  kind  so 
flattering  to  an  author  who  starts  an  original  school  of 
composition.  The  book  became  the  talk  of  the  town, 
and  ran  through  five  editions  the  first  year  of  its  publi-. 
cation.  Everybody,  high  and  low,  read  and  commented 
upon  it.  At  Ranelagh  Gardens,  the  ladies  held  it  up  to 
each  other  in  iriiimph  as  they  passed.  Pope  said  it 
contained  more  good  morality  than  twenty  volumes  of 
sermons.  Dr.  Sherlock,  not  daunted  by  some  highly 
drawn  scenes,  innocently  enough  indelicate,  recommend- 
ed it  from  the  pulpit.  One  significant  sign  of  its  popu- 
larity was  Its  changing  the  pronunciation  of  the  name 


526  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

Itself,  which  in  Pope  is  accented  on  the  second  syllable, 
and  in  Richardson  on  the  first,  —  the  public  being  wLM 
ing  to  introduce  discord  into  a  line  of  the  former,  rather 
than  spoil  the  harmony  of  a  few  verses  which  the  latter 
had  inserted  in  the  novel.  Richardson,  at  the  age  o^ 
fifty,  found  himself  in  some  measure  the  centre  of  attrac- 
tion, and  his  exacting  and  importunate  vanity  was  fed 
daily  with  hicense  of  private  and  public  praise.  A 
clique  of  female  puffers  and  toadies  was  especially  gen- 
erous and  indiscriminate  in  panegyric,  and  did  every- 
thing in  the  power  of  foolish  women  to  make  hiin  mor- 
bidly sensitive  to  blame  or  ridicule  levelled  at  himself 
and  his  heroine.  Fielding  watched  the  fever,  and,  in  a 
spirit  of  good-natured  mischievousness,  resolved  to  par- 
ody the  novel,  in  a  mock  heroic  style,  as  Cervantes  had 
parodied  the  romances  of  chivalry  in  Don  Quixote,  and 
as  Scarron  had  parodied  the  romances  of  gallantry  in 
the  Roman  Comique.  To  a  man  of  his  quick  sense  of 
the  ridiculous,  and  knowledge  of  life  and  character,  the 
glaring  faults  of  Pamela  were  instinctively  evident. 
The  moral  pedantry,  the  conceit  of  virtue,  the  exagger- 
ated importance  attributed  to  the  conventional  distinc- 
tions of  society,  the  absence  of  nature  and  truth,  and  the 
"  do-me-good "  air  of  the  work,  struck  his  humorous 
fancy  at  once.  He  saw  that,  in  spite  of  its  passages  of 
simplicity  and  pathos,  and  the  power  of  mind  it  evinced, 
it  was  still  essentially  a  deception,  —  that  its  boasted 
morality  was  practically  false,  and  its  sentiment  mawk 
ish.  Pamela  thus  had  the  honor  to  provoke  the  produc- 
tion of  Joseph  Andrews,  the  beauty  and  exquisite  humoi 
of  which  have  immortalized  not  only  itself,  but  the 
work  it  condescended  to  make  the  butt  of  its  sunn'j 
Ttierriment.      "^ 


HENRY    FIELDING.  327 

•*  The  History  of  the  Adventures  of  Joseph  Andrews, 
and  his  Friend,  Mr.  Abraham  Adams,"  was  published 
m  1742.  It  revealed  at  once  that  wealth  of  invention, 
humor,  and  character,  in  Fielding's  large  and  joyous 
mind,  which  had  heretofore  found  no  adequate  expres- 
sion. If  we  compare  this  novel  with  Tom  Jones,  we 
must  pronounce  it  inferior  in  story,  in  variety  of  charac- 
ter, and  in  the  range  of  its  comprehension  of  life  ;  but  it 
seems  to  us  superior  even  to  that,  in  glad  and  exuberant 
feeling,  in  sensuous  beauty,  in  warm  and  overflowing 
benevolence  of  spirit,  and  in  the  combination  of  the 
shrewdest  practical  observation  with  the  most  delicious 
abandonment  to  pleasurable  impulses.  The  author 
seems  himself  to  take  the  most  intense  enjoyment  in  the 
scenes  he  describes.  He  realizes  them  so  thoroughly  to 
his  own  consciousness,  that  he  communicates  the  glow 
of  their  gladness  to  the  reader.  The  inartistical  arrange- 
ment and  beautiful  waywardness  of  the  narrative ;  its 
|uick  growth  from  a  mere  caricature  of  Pamela  to  an 
independent  work ;  the  readiness  with  which  the  author's 
mind  yields  to  every  temptation  to  revel  in  rural  scenes 
of  adventure  and  enjoyment;  the  unmatched  irony  of 
his  allusions  to  the  novel  he  professes  so  much  to  ad- 
mire ;  the  heaped  and  overrunning  measure  of  delight 
h.p  continually  pours  forth  from  an  exhaustless  fund  of 
good-natured  creativeness ;  and,  especially,  the  broad 
and  deep  gushes  of  humor,  instinct  with  the  very  spirit 
of  fun,  coming  from  a  heart  as  beneficent  as  it  is  mirth 
ful,  and  flooding  all  banks  and  bounds  of  conventional 
propriety  with  overpowering  merriment ;  make  this  work 
one  of  the  happiest,  as  well  as  the  most  natural  and  most 
poetical,  that  ever  came  from  the  comic  genms  of  Eng- 
\i  nd.     But  the  marvel  of  the  book  consists  in  the  union 


S28  ESSAYS   AND    REVIEWS. 

of  vast  worldly  knowledge  with  childlike  enthusiaiin,  — 
in  the  description  of  the  faults  and  follies  of  men 
without  the  intrusion  of  an  atom  of  gall  or  bitterness 
and  in  enveloping  the  coarsest  and  most  indisputably 
natural  persons  and  events  in  a  rich  atmosphere  of 
romance.  It  is  an  exact  reflection  of  life,  but  a  reflec 
tion  similar  to  that  we  sometimes  perceive  in  a  still, 
deep  river,  which  mirrors  the  trees  and  shrubs  on  its 
banks,  and  converts  everything  into  beauty  without 
altering  its  form  or  hue. 

In  Joseph  Andrews  we  have  the  best  exponent  of 
Fielding's  nature,  with  its  goodness  as  an  instinct  and 
lack  of  goodness  as  a  principle.  No  one  can  read  it 
without  feeling  that  in  the  author's  heart  were  the  germs 
of  a  philanthropy  as  warm  and  all-embracing  as  ever 
animated  a  human  breast;  but  from  the  absence  of  high 
moral  and  religious  aspiration,  it  seems  to  expend  itself 
simply  in  the  desire  to  make  the  whole  world  comfort- 
able. Not  a  shade  of  moroseness,  intolerance,  or  malig- 
nity, darkens  the  sunny  and  breezy  tract  which  clips 
in  his  mind.  After  fifteen  years'  experience  of  the  self- 
ishness of  the  world,  and  with  a  frame  shattered  by 
indulgence  in  its  vices,  we  find  him  in  Joseph  Andrews 
radically  sound  in  heart  and  brain,  without  a  trace  of 
misanthropy  in  his  composition,  cheerful,  cosy,  chirping, 
with  a  man's  large  and  wide  knowledge  united  to  a 
boy's  hopeful  and  gleeful  spirit.  If  we  consider  his  mind 
in  respect  either  to  its  scope  or  its  healthiness,  we  dc 
not  see  how  we  can  avoid  placing  it  above  that  of  any 
English  poet,  novelist,  or  humorist,  of  his  century.  In 
strength,  depth,  and  massiveness  of  mind.  Swift  might 
be  deemed  his  equal ;  but  Swift's  perceptions  were  so 
distorted  by  his  malignities,  that  he  is  neither  sc  trust 


HENRY    FIELDING.  329 

worthy  nor  so  genial  as  Fielding,  Pope,  with  all  his 
brilliancy,  and  epigrammatic  morality,  and  analogies 
from  the  surfaces  of  things,  appears  little  in  comparison, 
the  moment  he  snaps  and  snajls  out  his  spiteful  wit  and 
rancorous  pride.  Addison  and  Goldsmith,  with  their 
deep  and  delicate  humor,  and  mastery  of  the  refine- 
ments of  character,  have  not  Fielding's  range  and  fruit- 
fulness  ;  nor,  perhaps,  his  occasional  astonishing  subtilty 
of  insight  into  the  unconscious  operations  of  the  mind. 
Thus,  the  huntsman,  in  Joseph  Andrews,  grumbles  as 
he  draws  off  his  dogs  from  Joseph  and  Parson  Adams, 
because  his  master  is  in  the  custom  of  thus  encouraging 
the  creatures  to  hunt  Christians,  making  them  follow 
vermin  instead  of  sticking  to  a  hare, —  this  being,  in  the 
opinion  of  the  servant,  the  sure  way  to  spoil  therr.. 
Smollett  has  occasional  touches  of  pathos  and  power 
beyond  Fielding ;  but,  not  to  mention  his  grossness,  his 
scurrility,  and  his  cynicism,  his  portraits  are  caricatures, 
compared  Avith  those  which  appear  in  Tom  Jones, 
Amelia,  and  the  novel  we  have  at  present  under  consid- 
eration. Richardson,  wnth  his  intense  concentrativeness 
and  hold  upon  the  minutest  threads  of  his  subject,  his 
dogged  habit  of  accretion,  his  matter-of-fact  accumulation 
of  uninteresting  details,  presents  so  strong  a  contrast  to 
Fielding's  fresh,  springing,  elastic  vigor,  and  habit  of 
flashing  a  character  or  a  feeling  upon  the  magination  in 
a  sentence,  that  comparison  is  out  of  the  question. 

It  seems  difficult  to  reconcile  Fielding's  mind  with  his 
temperament.  In  his  life,  we  find  him  the  most  heedless 
of  good  fellows,  delivering  himself  up  to  every  impulse 
of  sensibility,  tossed  and  tumbled  about  on  every  wave 
of  desire,  unguided  by  the  experience  he  gathers  from 
his  follies,  and  repenting  of  one  excess  only  to  rush 


330  essj^ys  and  reviews. 

immediately  afterwards  into  some  other.  The  fact,  that 
ne  was  in  conduct  so  confirmed  a  "  rowdy,"  and  seem- 
ingly as  reckless  and  feather-brained  as  Tom  Fashion,  or 
Sir  Harry  Wildair,  makes*  us  disposed  to  underrate  his 
intellect.  Yet  the  moment  we  forget  his  habit  of  deify- 
ing the  moment,  and  calmly  consider  his  mind,  we  are 
amazed  at  its  weight  and  range,  — its  sure,  steady,  deep, 
and  refined  perception  of  the  motives  of  action,  —  its 
keen  vision,  before  which  cant  and  hypocrisy  instinct- 
ively unveil,  in  the  very  despair  of  eluding  detection, — 
its  humor,  so  sly,  so  shrewd,  so  profound,  so  broad,  so 
introversive,  penetrating  beyond  the  reach  of  analysis  to 
the  inmost  springs  of  life,  —  and  its  just  and  discrimi- 
nating views  of  those  things  which  are  commonly  over- 
laid with  prejudice  and  passion. 

But  passing  from  these  remarks  to  the  work  which 
occasioned  them,  it  is  certain  that,  if  Joseph  Andrews  is 
the  most  delightful  of  Fielding's  novels,  the  first  book  of 
Joseph  Andrews  is  the  most  delightful  portion  of  the 
whole.  The  strain  of  irony  in  which  he  alludes  in  the 
commencement  to  Richardson  is  exceeded  only  by  his 
stroke  at  CoUey  Gibber,  who  had  lately  published  his 
gossiping  apology  for  his  life.  Gibber  had  called  Field- 
ing a  "  broken  wit ;"  and  the  latter,  in  alluding  to  the 
former's  autobiography,  mockingly  praises  its  design. 
"  How  artfully,  by  insinuating  that  he  escaped  being  pro- 
moted to  the  highest  stations  in  church  a.nd  state,  doth 
he  teach  us  a  contempt  of  worldly  grandeur!  How 
strongly  doth  he  inculcate  an  absohite  submission  to  oui 
superiors  !  Lastly,  how  completely  doth  he  arm  us 
against  so  uneasy,  so  wretched,  a  passion  as  the  fear  of 
shame  !  how  clearly  doth  he  expose  the  emptiness  and 
vanity  of  that  phantom,  reputation  '  "     The  account  o- 


HENRY    FIELDING.  331 

Joseph's  youth,  which  follows,  —  of  his  position  as  foot- 
boy  to  Lady  Booby,  and  his  promotion  thence  to  the 
post  of  footman,  —  of  the  unfortmiate  passion  which  her 
ladyship  experiences  for  him,  and  his  rejection  of  her 
unworthy  advances,  —  of  the  letter  which  he  writes  to 
his  sister,  the  divine  Pamela,  describing  his  temptation, 
and  his  being  turned  away  by  Lady  Potiphar  Booby  from 
his  place,  on  account  of  his  heroic  virtue,  —  is  steeped 
through  and  through  with  mirth. 

The  scenes  which  succeed  are  even  better.  Joseph, 
on  his  return  home,  is  waylaid  at  night  by  robbers, 
pounded  almost  to  death,  and  thrown  naked  into  a  ditch. 
A  stage-coach  passes,  and  the  postilion,  hearing  a  groan, 
offers  to  stop.  But  the  coachman  tells  him  to  go  on,  that 
the  stage  is  confounded  late,  and  that  they  have  no  time 
to  look  after  dead  men.  A  lady,  however,  interferes,  but 
as  soon  as  she  finds  the  condition  that  poor  Joseph  is  in 
her  modesty  impels  her  to  desire  that  he  may  be  left 
where  he  is,  it  being  better  that  he  should  freeze  to  death 
than  that  her  delicacy  should  be  wounded.  Every  pas- 
senger in  the  coach  develops  some-form  of  selfishness, — 
and  the  coachman,  after  it  is  concluded  to  take  Joseph  in, 
swears  that  it  shall  not  be  done  unless  somebody  pays  a 
shilling  for  the  remaining  four  miles  he  is  to  ride.  After 
this  point  is  settled,  nobody  will  lend  him  a  great  coat  to 
wrap  himself  in  ;  the  coachman,  who  has  two,  refuses, 
lest  they  should  be  made  bloody ;  and  the  poor  fellow 
must  inevitably  have  perished,  were  it  not  that  the  pos- 
tilion, whom  Field  hig  is  careful  to  inform  us  in  a  paren- 
thesis was  transported  shortly  after  for  robbing  a  hen- 
roost, strips  off  his  own  coat,  and  swearing  a  great  oath, 
(far  which  the  passengers  rebuke  him,)  exc.aims   '  thar 


«2 


ESbAYS    AND   REVIEWS. 


he  would  rather  ride  in  his  shirt  all  his  life  than  suffer  a 
fellow-creature  to  lie  in  so  miserable  a  condition." 

The  scenes  which  succeed,  at  the  ale-house  of  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Towwouse,  beggar  description.  Betty,  the 
maid,  runs  to  the  surgeon,  and  he,  understanding  that 
some  gentleman  is  hurt,  hastily  dresses  himself;  but 
on  being  informed  that  the  wounded  man  is  only  a  poor 
foot-passenger,  gravely  rebukes  Betty  for  calling  him  at 
unseasonable  hours,  slips  off  his  clothes  again,  and 
quietly  returns  to  bed  and  to  sleep.  Mrs.  Towwouse, 
with  her  pursed  lips,  her  harsh,  loud  voice,  her  sharp, 
red-pointed  nose,  the  two  bones  which  stood  at  "  the 
upper  end  of  that  skin  which  composed  her  cheeks, 
almost  hiding  a  pair  of  small  red  eyes,"  and  her  poor 
pin-hearted  and  hen-pecked  husband,  now  make  their 
appearance.  This  beautiful  shrew,  on  being  informed 
that  her  husband  had  lent  poor  Joseph  one  of  his  shirts, 
goes  off  into  one  of  her  fits  of  connubial  rage.  "  But," 
says  Towwouse,  meekly,  "  this  is  a  poor  wretch."  "  Yes," 
returns  his  spouse,  with  unanswerable  logic,  "  I  know  it 

is  a  poor  wretch  ;  but  what  the have  we  to  do  with 

poor  wretches  ?  The  law  makes  us  provide  for  too  many 
already  We  shall  have  thirty  or  forty  poor  wretches  in 
red  coats  shortly."  "  But,"  still  persists  Towwouse, 
"  this  man  hath  been  robbed  of  all  he  hath."  "  Well, 
then,"  answers  she,  "  where  's  his  money  to  pay  his 
reckoning?"  The  husband  at  last  concludes  not  to  con- 
tradict her.  She  compliments  the  wisdom  of  this  last 
determination,  by  saying,  "  If  the  devil  was  to  contra- 
dict me,  I  would  make  the  house  too  hot  to  hold  him." 

However,  Joseph  is  in  the  house,  —  Betty  has  managea 
to  borrow  some  clothing  of  the  hostler,  —  the  surgeoc 
speaks  knowingly  of  the  extreme  danger  of  the  unwei" 


HENRY    FIELDING.  333 

come  guest,  —  Mrs.  Towwouse  is  apprehensive  that  she 
will  have  to  bear  the  expense  of  a  funeral,  —  and  the 
parson,  Mr.  Barnabas,  is  called  up  to  Joseph  from  the 
bar-room,  to  give  him  some  ghostly  consolation.  He 
desires  to  know  if  he  has  any  sins  unrepented  of;  if  he 
has,  to  make  haste  and  repent  of  them  as  soon  as  he  can, 
"  that  they  may  repeat  over  a  few  prayers  together,"  — 
the  hint  in  regard  to  haste  in  repentance  being  given 
because  the  company  down  stairs  are  about  to  prepare  a 
bowl  of  punch,  and  no  one  is  willing  to  squeeze  the 
lemons  until  Barnabas  comes.  After  being  thus  shrived, 
the  sick  man  desires  some  tea  ;  but  Mrs.  To\rwouse 
answers  that  "  she  had  just  done  drinking  it,  and  could 
not  be  slopping  all  day,"  and  orders  a  mug  of  beer  to  be 
carried  to  him  instead.  The  appearance  of  Parson 
Adams  now  changes  matters  in  favor  of  Joseph,  and  a 
few  more  diverting  scenes,  brimful  of  nature  and  char- 
acter, conclude  the  first  book.  We  know  not  anywhere 
9lse  such  fine  ingenuity  in  exhibiting  the  selfish  element 
}n  human  nature,  or  such  invincible  good-humor  in  its 
representation. 

A  good  portion  of  the  rest  of  the  novel  is  taken  up 
with  the  adventures  of  Joseph  and  Parson  Adams  on 
their  road  homewards,  and  is  full  of  humorous  pictures 
of  the  English  life  of  that  period,  high  and  low.  Of 
Parson  Adams,  the  most  poetical  character  in  any  novel 
not  written  by  Scoft,  —  a  man  whose  virtues  had  so 
endeared  him  to  a  bishop,  that,  at  the  age  of  fifty,  he  was 
presented  with  a  handsome  living  of  £23  a  year,  where- 
with to  support  a  wife  and  six  children,  —  we  shall 
hardly  presume  to  speak.  His  vanity  simplicity,  learn- 
ing, benevolence,  evangelical  purity  of  mind,  —  his  sfout 
udgel,  pedestrian  habits,  and  copy  of  ^schylus,  -  •  are 


334  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

as  well  known  as  anything-  in  romance.  The  other  char 
acters  are  drawn  with  a  fidelity  which  leaves  nothing  to 
wish.  There  is  Fanny,  simpler  and  purer  than  Pamela 
herself,  a  rose-bud  with  the  morning  dew  upon  it,  just 
the  true  and  innocent  creature  that  we  might  expect  in 
one  who  had  followed  the  teachings  of  the  good  parson. 
There  is  Mrs.  Slipslop,  with  her  garrulous  vulgarity,  her 
town-bred  airs,  her  impertinence  to  inferiors,  her  serv'ility 
to  superiors  ;  mourning  over  the  "  frail  sect,"  and  always 
"  confidious  "  that  she  is  in  the  right ;  more  eager  to  part 
vith  her  virtue  than  others  are  to  retain  it, — the  per- 
fection of  waiting-women,  and  worth  all  of  Congreve's 
put  together.  There  are  Lady  Booby,  and  Squire  Boobyj 
and  Beau  Didapper,  vivid  as  life  itself.  Pamela,  towards 
the  close  of  the  novel,  is  subjected  to  a  process  of 
caricature,  whose  merry  maliciousness  might  well  en- 
gage Richardson.  She  is  represented  as  seconding  the 
entreaties  of  Squire  Booby  to  make  Joseph  give  up 
Fanny,  as  a  match  below  the  rank  of  her  brother  ;  and 
on  being  told  that  the  girl  is  her  equal  at  least,  she 
answers,  in  a  strain  of  the  most  exquisite  imbecility,  — 
"  She  was  my  equal ;  but  I  am  no  longer  Pamela 
Andrews.  I  am  now  this  gentleman's  lady,  and  as 
such  am  above  her.  1  hope  I  shall  never  behave  with  an 
unbecoming  pride ;  but  at  the  same  time,  I  shall  always 
endeavor  to  know  myself,  and  question  not  the  assistance 
of  grace  to  that  purpose." 

The  publication  of  Joseph  Andrews  gave  the  author 
increased  reputation,  but  it  made  him  bitter  enemies 
among  the  friends  of  Richardson,  and  the  paltriest  means 
were  taken  to  decry  his  talents  and  scandalize  his  repu- 
tation. Richardson  himself  was  stung  to  the  quick,  and 
aever  forgave  Fielding.     His  resentment  took  the  forio 


HENRY    FIELDING. 


336 


*f  contemptuous  commiseration.  Rancor  ate  intc  his 
heart,  but  he  expressed  it  in  the  style  of  an  offended 
saint,  looking  pityingly  down  on  a  low  sinner  who  had 
attacked  his  unstained  purity.  He  went  so  far  as  to 
deny  invention  to  Fielding,  and  even  after  the  lat- 
ter's  death  pursued  his  memory  with  his  deep,  quiet, 
narrow,  and  unappeasable  hatred.  With  regard  to 
Joseph  Andrews,  he  could  not  see  any  merit  even  in 
Parson  Adams.  Fielding,  he  said,  took  the  character 
from  Parson  Young,  "  but  made  him  more  absurd  than 
he  is  known  to  be."  On  an  allusion  of  one  of  his  cor- 
respondents to  his  own  novel,  he  refers  to  it  as  the 
Pamela  which  Fielding  "abused  in  his  Shamela.  Before 
his  Joseph  Andrews,  (hints  and  names  taken  from  that 
story  with  a  lewd  and  ungenerous  engraftment,)  the  poor 
man  wrote  without  being  read,  except  when  his  Pasquins, 
&c.,  roused  party  attention  and  the  legislature  at  the 
same  time."  And  to  crown  all,  Richardson  and  his  knot 
of  admiring  widows  and  spinsters  comforted  themselves 
with  the  faith  that  the  author  whom  they  made  the  tar- 
get of  their  petty  malice  would  be  soon  forgotten. 

It  is  certain  that  Fielding  would  not,  even  to  save 
himself  from  this  prophesied  oblivion,  put  out  his  repu- 
tation to  nurse,  and  attempt  to  keep  the  bantling  alive  by 
milk  diet  and  baby  talk.  He  was  in  quest,  not  so  much 
of  praise  or  fame,  as  of  a  subsistence ;  and  accordingly, 
soon  alter  the  publication  of  his  novel,  he  brought  out 
his  comedy  of  The  Wedding  Day,  at  Drury  Lane.  It 
was  acted  but  six  nights,  and  the  author  received  only 
£50.  This  comedy  is  not  without  humor,  sprightliness, 
and  character  ;  but  the  stage  was  not  Fielding's  sphere. 
His  careless  scorn  of  the  "  patrons  of  the  drama"  came 
near  producing  the  condemnation  of  this  play  on  the  first 


336  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

night  of  its  representation.  Garrick,  who  played  Milla 
mour,  and  who  was  then  a  young  and  skittish  actor, 
entreated  him  to  omit  a  particular  passage,  calculated  tc 
provoke  the  hisses  of  the  audience,  as  such  a  repulse 
would  so  flurry  his  spirits  as  to  disconcert  him  for  the 
whole  evening.  "  No  !  "  replied  Fielding,  with  an  oath  ; 
"  if  the  scene  is  not  a  good  one,  let  them  find  that  out."' 
Garrick's  fear  proved  to  be  correct;  a  storm  of  hisses  and 
cat-calls  greeted  his  utterance  of  the  objectionable  pas- 
sage ;  and  he  retired,  boiling  over  with  rage  and  chagrin, 
to  the  green-room.  He  there  found  Fielding,  in  his  most 
ecstatic  mood,  enveloped  in  tobacco-smoke,  and  glorious 
with  champagne.  "  What 's  the  matter,  Garrick  ?  "  said 
the  dramatist,  cocking  his  eye  at  the  actor  ;  "  what  are 
they  hissing  now  ?  "  "  Why,  the  scene  that  I  begged  you 
to  retrench  ;  I  knew  it  would  not  do  ;  and  they  have  so 
frightened  me,  that  I  shall  not  be  able  to  collect  myself 
the  whole  night."  —  "  0,"  answered  the  author;  "they 
HAVE  found  it  out,  have  they  ?" 

But  while  Fielding  was  thus  bearing,  cheerily  enough, 
the  miseries  consequent  upon  his  state  of  wretched 
dependence  on  his  pen,  dogged  by  creditors  and  racked 
by  the  gout,  a  new  calamity,  the  most  severe  of  his 
life,  burst  upon  him.  This  was  the  death  of  his  wife,  a 
woman  whom  he  tenderly  and  passionately  loved,  and 
who,  in  her  devotion  to  his  interests  and  happiness,  and 
the  smiling  resignation  with  which  she  bore  the  conse- 
quences of  his  errors,  deserved  the  bountiful  admiration 
he  afterwards  lavished  upon  her  in  the  character  of 
Amelia.  For  once,  at  least,  in  his  life,  he  was  utterly 
broken  down  and  disheartened.  His  affectionateness 
was  as  characteristic  as  his  joyousness,  and  the  rude  shock 
which  both  received  by  this  event  almost  drove  him  fran- 


HENRY    FIELDING.  337 

tic.  There  is  a  curious  story  told  about  him,  in  this 
connection,  which  as  it  is  in  keeping  witli.liis  cliaracter, 
we  are  inclined  to  believe,  though  it  is  not  mentioned  by 
Arthur  Murphy,  Scott,  or  Roscoe.  Mrs.  Fielding  had 
a  maid,  who  assisted  her  in  taking  care  of  the  children. 
She  was  fondly  attached  to  her  mistress,  and  on  the  death 
of  the  latter,  so  piteously  bewailed  her  loss,  that  she 
attracted  the  notice  of  Fielding  in  his  affliction.  As  she 
seemed  the  only  person  who  really  echoed  his  own  grief, 
he  naturally  enough  was  led  into  repeated  conversations 
with  her  regarding  the  good  qualities  of  his  deceased 
wife.  Thus  mutually  mourning  the  departed,  they 
nisensibly  became  mutually  attached,  and  in  the  end  they 
were  married.  She  proved  a  faithful  and  affectionate 
wife ;  and  though  the  houses  of  Denbigh  and  Hapsburg 
might  not  receive  any  additional  splendor  from  the  match, 
the  girl  was  probably  as  virtuous  and  disinterested  as  any 
that  their  line  could  boast.  There  is  something  ludi- 
crous in  the  dignity  of  Fielding's  biographers,  in  avoiding 
this  incident  of  his  life.  They  should  have  recollected 
Mrs.  Slipslop's  righteous  indignation  at  Mrs.  Graveairs, 
for  attempting  to  play  the  gentlewoman  in  a  stage-coach  : 
—  '•  My  betters  !    who  is  my  betters,  pray  ?  " 

Fielding,  as  soon  as  he  recovered  from  the  first  shock 
of  his  wife's  death,  displayed  no  lack  of  industry  in  fol- 
ic ving  his  profession  of  authorship.  Besides  a  volume 
oJ  miscellanies  published  in  1743,  in  which  was  included 
"  A.  Journey  from  this  World  to  the  Next,"  an  unfinished 
work,  marked  by  many  of  his  peculiar  excellences,  but 
apparently  aimless  as  to  general  design,  —  he  produced 
"  The  History  of  the  Life  of  the  late  Mr.  Jonathan  Wild 
the  Great."  This  work  smacks  of  the  vulgarity  of  the 
localities  to  which  its  characters  are  principally  confined 

VOL.  II.  22 


338 


ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 


out  the  general  idea,  that  of  showing  how  much  ot  the 
greatness  which  passes  in  this  world  is  identical  in  spirit 
with  that  of  the  highwayman,  is  enforced  in  a  strain  of 
irony  which  no  other  author  then  living  could  have 
approached.  We  can  almost  sympathize  with  Wild's 
detection  of  the  analogies  between  his  own  actions  and 
those  of  many  vigorous  characters  who  have  exercised 
murder  and  rapine  in  a  wider  sphere  of  destruction. 
"  For  my  own  part,"  he  says,  "  I  confess  I  look  on  this 
death  of  hanging  to  be  as  proper  for  a  hero  as  any  other ; 
and  I  solemnly  declare,  that,  had  Alexander  the  Great 
been  hanged,  it  would  not  in  the  least  have  diminished 
my  respect  for  his  memory."  The  episode  of  Heartfree 
and  his  wife  has  many  touches  of  genuine  pathos,  and 
the  humanity  of  Fielding  finely  underlies  the  mocking 
praise  he  awards  to  their  hard-hearted  and  selfish  perse- 
cutor. The  conversation  between  Wild  and  the  Ordinary 
of  Newgate  is  as  deservedly  celebrated  as  any  passage 
in  Joseph  Andrews  or  Tom  Jones.  The  sudden  placa- 
bility of  the  Ordinary,  when  Wild  interrupts  his  holy 
invectives  by  offering  to  treat  him  to  a  bottle  of  wine,  is 
exceeded  only  by  his  objection  to  that  beverage.  "Why 
wine?  Let  me  tell  you,  Mr.  Wild,  there  is  nothing  so 
deceitful  as  the  spirits  given  us  by  wine.  If  you  must 
drink,  let  us  have  a  bowl  of  punch ;  a  liquor  I  the  rather 
prefer,  as  it  is  nowhere  spoken  against  in  the  Scripture, 
and  as  it  is  more  wholesome  for  the  gravel,  a  distemper 
with  which  I  am  grievously  afflicted."  This  work  covers 
the  whole  philosophy  of  that  system  in  accordance  with 
which  the  strong  prey  upon  the  weak,  and  consider 
superior  intelligence  as  given  to  men  only  to  make  them 
more  ingenious  wolves  and  more  profound  tigers. 
In  addition  to  these  works,  Fielding  started,  in  1745 


HENRY    FIELDING.  339 

a  paper  in  the  whig  interest,  full  of  enthusiasm  for 
the  Hanoverian  succession,  entitled  The  True  Patriot. 
This,  with  The  Jacobite's  Journal,  commenced  in  1748, 
expressed  sufficient  zeal  for  the  cause  of  the  ministry  to 
entitle  him  to  receive  some  of  its  favors ;  but  his  services 
were  not  appreciatid,  and  meaner  men  bore  off  the 
rewards  of  loyalty.  At  last,  in  1749,  through  the  influ- 
ence of  his  constant  friend,  Lyttelton,he  received  a  small 
pension,  with  the  office  of  Justice  of  Peace  for  West- 
minster and  Middlesex.  This  was  hardly  a  reputable 
position.  The  magistrates  of  Westminster  were  called 
trading  justices,  being  paid  for  their  services  in  fees,  — 
"a  mean  and  wretched  system,"  says  Scott,  "which 
made  it  the  interest  of  these  functionaries  to  inflame 
every  petty  dispute  which  was  brought  before  them,  to 
trade,  as  it  were,  in  guilt  and  misery,  and  wring  their 
precarious  subsistence  out  of  thieves  and  pickpockets." 
Fielding  was  now  brought  into  connection,  as  a  justice, 
with  the  lowest  and  vilest  classes  of  society,  with  rogues, 
vagabonds,  and  debauchees,  and  his  own  habits  seem  to 
have  suffered  from  the  character  of  his  environments. 
To  his  honor,  it  must  be  admitted,  he  did  not  avail  him- 
self of  the  means  his  office  afforded,  of  selling  justice,  or 
of  wringing  from  the  miserable  their  last  pittance.  He 
was  too  humane  to  make  money  by  his  position.  His 
predecessor,  with  less  business,  had  cleared  £1000  a 
year;  but  Fielding  says,  in  regard  to  himself,  that  by 
composing  quarrels,  "  and  refusing  to  take  a  shilling 
Vom  a  man  who  most  undoubtedly  would  not  have  had 
another  left,  I  had  reduced  an  income  of  £500  a  year,  of 
the  dirtiest  money  on  earth,  to  little  more  than  £300,  a 
considerable  portion  of  which  remained  with  my  clerk.' 
He  appears  to  have  bent  his  powerful  mind,  while  in  this 


S40  bSsays  ajnid  reviews. 

office,  to  an  investigation  of  the  causes  and  cure  of  the 
crimes  which  at  that  period  were  so  common  in  England. 
His  cnarge  to  the  Grand  Jury  of  Middlesex,  and  his  In- 
quiry nito  the  Increase  of  Thieves  and  Bobbers,  both  full 
of  just  remarks  and  benevolent  sentiments,  were  his 
chief  productions  on  subjects  relating  to  his  magistracy. 

His  office,  as  we  have  seen,  gave  him  but  a  slender 
income  ;  but  ho  could  convince  nobody  of  the  fact.  The 
Secretary  of  State  told  him,  when  he  asked  for  an 
increase  of  his  pension,  that  his  office  was  not  on  all 
accounts  a  very  desirable  one,  but  that  all  the  world  knew 
it  was  lucrative.  Fielding,  therefore,  was  as  poor  as 
ever.  Horace  Walpole  has  left  a  picture  of  him  at  this 
time,  at  once  laughable  and  mortifying.  Rigby  and 
Bathurst,  two  of  Walpole's  friends,  carried  a  servant  of 
the  latter,  on  the  charge  of  attempting  to  shoot  his  mas- 
ter, before  Fielding.  He  sent  word  that  he  was  at  sup- 
per, and  that  they  must  call  in  the  morning ;  but  they 
pushed  into  the  Justice's  room,  and  found  him  banquet- 
ing with  a  blind  man,  a  woman  of  doubtful  character, 
and  three  Irishmen,  "on  some  cold  mutton  and  a  bone 
of  ham,  both  in  one  dish,  and  the  dirtiest  cloth.  He 
never  stirred,  nor  asked  them  to  sit.  Rigby,  who  had 
seen  him  come  so  often  to  beg  a  guinea  of  Sir  C.  Wil- 
liams, and  Bathurst,  at  whose  father's  he  had  lived  for 
victuals,  understood  that  dignity  as  little,  and  pulled 
themselves  chairs,  —  on  which  he  civilized."  Rigby  and 
Bathurst  doubtless  proved  themselves  insolent  puppies 
by  this  conduct,  and  Horace  Walpole  an  unfeeling  one 
by  his  mode  of  narrating  it ;  but  there  is  little  in  this 
reflection  to  excuse  the  abject  position  in  which  the 
account  places  the  magistrate. 

It  was  amid  the  disgusting  and  ill-paid  duties  of  this 


HENRT    riELDlNG.  341 

pffice,  and  while  under  t!ie  influence  of  the  habits  it 
engendered,  that  Fielding  composed  Tom  Jones,  the 
great  prose  epic  of  English  literature.  He  was  indebted 
for  the  means  of  subsistence,  while  writing  it,  to  Ralph 
Allen,  Lyttelton,  and  the  Duke  of  Bedford.  The  former 
has  been  immortalized,  both  in  the  character  of  All 
worthy,  and  in  the  celebrated  couplet  of  Pope  :  -  • 

"  Let  humble  Allen,  with  an  awkward  shame, 
Do  good  by  sr?alth,  and  blush  to  find  it  fame." 

His  kindness  to  Fielding  was,  we  believe,  wholly  unso- 
licited. He  once  sent  him  two  hundred  pounds  anony- 
mously, or,  at  least,  before  he  knew  him  in  any  other 
way  than  as  a  distressed  man  of  letters. 

Tom  Jones  was  published  by  Andrew  Millar,  the 
Murray  of  that  period.  He  was  a  shrewd,  enterprising, 
and  not  illiberal  bookseller,  but  celebrated,  even  in  that 
generation  of  topers,  for  his  devotion  to  the  bottle.  It  is 
said  that  for  years  there  was  not  a  day  in  Avhich  he 
was  not  in  that  muddled  state,  which,  in  Bacchanalian 
phraseology,  goes  under  the  name  of  "  boozy."  In  this 
condition  he  could  always  be  found  behind  his  counter, 
going  through  the  business  of  his  occupation  with  com- 
mendable gravity,  and  though  hardly  able  to  stand  or 
speak,  still  contriving  to  avoid  making  mistakes  in  his 
dealings  either  with  authors  or  customers.  He  bought 
Tom  Jones  for  six  hundred  pounds,  and,  on  its  meet- 
ing with  extraordinary  success,  generously  presented  the 
author  an  additional  hundred,  of  his  own  free  will. 

In  Tom  Jones,  Fielding  has  comprehended  a  largei 
variety  of  incidents  and  characters  under  a  stricter  unity 
of  story  than  in  Joseph  Andrews ;  bui  he  has  given  to 
the  whole  a  tone  of  worldliness,  which  does  not  mar  the 


342  ESSAYS    AND   REVIEWS. 

delightful  simplicity  of  the  latter.  As  an  expression  of 
the  power  and  breadth  of  his  mind,  however,  it  is  alto- 
gether his  greatest  work,  aiid  in  the  union  of  distinct 
pictorial  representation  with  profound  knowledge  of  prac« 
tical  life,  is  unequalled  by  any  novel  in  the  language 
We  not  only  see  all  the  personages  as  clearly  as  if  they 
were  brought  bodily  before  our  eyes,  but  so  close  and 
/ifelike  is  the  imitation,  that  the  moment  they  converse, 
*-he  page  itself  seems  to  speak,  and,  in  our  illusion,  we 
lardly  distinguish  reading  from  listening.  Characters 
md  events  are  so  softly  and  yet  so  indelibly  impressed 
on  the  imagination,  that  we  care  not  to  discriminate 
between  the  memory  of  them  and  the  memory  of  facts 
which  have  fallen  within  our  own  experience.  It  would 
almost  seem  to  argue  an  unreasonable  scepticism  to 
doubt  the  existence  of  such  a  veritable  personage  as 
Square,  lover  of  Plato  and  Molly  Seagrim,  with  his 
brain  full  of  transcendental  morality,  and  his  heart  full 
o[ descendental  appetites;  of  Thwackum,  malignant  ora- 
tor of  grace,  and  most  graceless  of  boisterous  malignants; 
of  Ensign  Northerton,  the  very  pink  of  rakes,  braggarts, 
and  upstarts,  with  his  profane  disrespect  of  "  Homo," 
his  contempt  of  all  learning  associated  in  his  mind  with 
pedagogic  flagellations,  and  his  exultation  at  deceiv- 
ing "  the  old  put,"  his  father,  out  of  his  intention  of 
making  him  a  parson ;  of  Blifil,  the  most  sublime  of 
didactic  coxcombs,  with  his  deep  and  solemn  shamming 
of  virtue,  so  completely  a  hypocrite  that  he  almost  con- 
ceals himself,  and  seems  more  an  appearance  than  a 
beii.w;  of  Alhvorthy,  in  whose  delineation  the  author's 
whole  beneficence  of  heart  overflows  ;  and  of  Tom  Jones 
himself,  with  his  unguided  heart  glowing  with  all  the 
'impulses,  disinterested  and  sensual,  and  allowing  each 


HENRY    FIELDING.  343 

to  act  of  its  own  will,  —  sincere,  generous,  affectionate, 
and  unprincipled.  But  above  all,  what  shall  we  say  of 
Squire  Western,  next  to  Falstaff  the  most  universally- 
popular  of  comic  creations,  and  as  genuine  a  lump  of 
clay  and  passion  as  ever  started  into  being  under  the 
magical  touch  of  a  humorist?  His  shrewdness,  his 
avarice,  his  coarse  kindness,  his  sense-defying  Jacobit- 
ism,  his  irresistible  unreasonableness ,  his  brutal  anger, 
making  the  page  which  chronicles  it  shake  with  oaths, 
interjections,  and  screaming  interrogations  ;  —  loving  his 
daughter  as  he  loves  his  dogs  and  horses,  and  willing  to 
use  the  whip  and  the  spur  the  moment  she  does  not  obey 
him  with  due  alacrity,  as  in  the  case  of  his  other  brutes, 
and  loving  himself  with  a  depth  of  affection,  with  a  dis- 
regard of  everything  else  on  and  over  the  earth,  which 
touches  the  pathetic  in  selfishness;  —  all  these  go  to 
make  up  a  character  so  natural,  and  yet  so  eccentric,  as 
to  disturb  our  faith  in  the  dogma  that  reason  is  the  sep- 
arating line  between  man  and  the  beast.  Parson  Sup- 
ple, his  spiritual  adviser  and  boon  companion,  looking 
after  the  Squire's  soul,  and  running  on  his  errands,  is  a 
suitable  appendage  to  this  "good  old  English  gentle- 
man." Then  there  is  Black  George,  the  gamekeeper, 
oscillating  between  rascality  and  honesty,  like  a  pendu- 
lum ;  the  interesting  and  accomplished  family  of  that 
gentleman  ;  and  Partridge,  with  his  proverbs,  and  pro- 
verbial pedantry,  the  unfortunate  scape-goat  of  the  sins 
and  vices  of  others.  Sophia  Western,  whose  rich,  red 
lips  almost  peep  through  the  page  as  we  read;  Mrs. 
Honor,  her  maid,  a  younger  sister  of  Mrs.  Slipslop,  with 
the  peculiarities  of  her  blood  tripping  from  her  tongue 
in  every  impertinence  she  utters  ;  Mrs.  Waters  and  Lady 
Beilaston,  admirably  discriminated   in  their  worthless 


344  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

ness;  and  Mrs.  Western,  and  Mrs.  Fitzpatrick,  ant! 
Molly  Seagrim,  and  Mrs.  Miller,  —  all  are  indisputably 
genuine,  though  not  altogether  flattering  delineations  of 
female  character. 

We  are,  in  fact,  made  acquainted  through  this  book 
with  Eng-land  as  it  was  in  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  Every  personage,  from  lord  to  chambermaid, 
—  every  incident,  —  every  description  of  a  custom,  an 
amusement,  a  fashion  of  dress,  —  every  form  of  collo- 
quial speech,  vulgar  or  delicate,  —  every  allusion  to  the 
political  parties  which  divided  the  country,  is  a  mine  of 
information ;  and  the  whole  gives  the  lie  direct  fo  half 
the  impressions  we  derive  from  history,  and  enables  us 
to  grasp  the  reality  and  substance  of  the  national  life. 
Squire  Western  is  probably  but  a  heightened  representa- 
tion of  the  country  gentleman  of  that  period,  as  he  was 
found  by  Walpole  or  Newcastle,  when  the  minister 
desired  to  push  a  measure  through  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, and  established  commercial  relations  with  its  ob- 
stinate Jacobites  and  patriots  "  open  to  reason."  West- 
ern would  have  imperfectly  comprehended  a  question  of 
national  policy,  but  would  be  sure  to  have  known  the 
inarket  price  of  votes.  The  political  corruption  of  that 
period  has  been  often  laid  to  the  different  administrations 
of  the  government.  But  no  reader  of  Fielding  can  faii 
to  see  how  common  it  was,  for  a  person  holding  a  por- 
tion of  the  legislative  power  of  the  country,  to  consider 
it  a  piece  of  property,  which  should  not  be  induced  to 
utter  a  simple  "  aye "  without  an  introduction  to  the 
secret-service  money.  There  is  a  great  difference  be 
tween  a  prime  minister  who  corrupts  representatives 
Bad  a  prime  minister  who  has  to  deal  with  representa* 
tives  who  set  themselves  up  for  sale.     In  the  latter  c»se 


HENRY    FIELDING.  345 

that  statesman  would  seem  to  be  the  best  who  contrives 
to  purchase  the  largest  number  of  votes  with  the  smallest 
ex])Gnditure  of  the  public  money. 

In  addition  to  the  wealth  of  character  and  incident  in 
this  novel,  its  fulness  of  spirit  and  humor,  and  its  almos* 
exhaustless  capacity  to  amuse  and  to  instruct,  the  story 
is  distinguished  from  that  of  most  works  of  fiction  by  its 
artistic  unity  and  completeness.  It  contnins  nothing,  if 
we  except  the  episode  of  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mill,  which 
interferes  with  the  main  design.  With  a  beautiful  an, 
so  felicitously  concealed  as  to  seem  instinctive,  incident 
grows  out  of  incident,  at  once  springing  from  and  develop- 
ing character ;  and  the  stream  of  events,  growing  broader 
with  every  accession,  flows  naturally  forward  to  the 
catastrophe.  The  style  also  varies  with  the  scenes, 
exhibiting  a  singular  command  of  apt  and  pictorial  lan- 
guage, and  is  especially  delicious  in  the  expression  of 
irony  and  mock-heroic  grandeur.  The  description  of  the 
battle  between  Molly  Seagrim  and  half  of  the  parish,  in 
which  she  does  such  direful  execution  among  the  country 
nymphs  and  swains,  is  a  masterpiece  of  triumphant 
parody.  But  no  quotations  or  allusions  would  do  any 
justice  to  the  exquisite  perfection  of  this  novel,  in  respect 
pither  to  its  plot,  its  characters,  or  its  style. 

There  has  been  much  speculation  on  the  question 
\/hether  Tom  Jones  is  an  immoral  work.  Scott  decides 
it  somewhat  after  the  manner  in  which  Dr.  Johnson 
decided  a  similar  question  regarding  the  morality  of  The 
Beggtir's  Opera.  He  saj^s  that  the  novel  never  added 
one  libertine  to  the  company  of  licentious  debauchees; 
and  he  fears  that  the  frankness  and  generosity  of  the 
hero  have  found  as  few  imitators  as  his  vice  and  indis- 
cretion.    This  judgment,  however,  implies  that  all  minds 


.M6  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

are  healthy  enough  to  escape  contamination  from  iramora' 
works  of  imagination,  which  is  just  the  reverse  of  the 
fact. 

The  discussion  of  the  question  in  respect  to  the  novel 
und<5r  consideration  may  be  considerably  narrowed  by 
attempti  ig  to  define  in  what  the  immorality  of  a  work 
consists.  Some  persons,  without  allowing  for  changes 
in  national  manners,  pronounce  coarse  and  direct  expres- 
sion, in  plain,  plump  words,  to  be  immoral ;  and  in  this 
sense  Tom  Jones  shares  the  stigma  with  Shakspeare  and 
Ben  Jonson,  with  Dr.  South  and  many  a  luminary  of  the 
Church.  Others  consider  all  representation  of  profligacy 
and  falsehood  unaccompanied  by  resounding  maxims 
declaring  their  naughtiness,  to  be  immoral ;  and  in  this 
sense  every  delineator  of  life  and  character  is  bound  to 
be  immoral  by  the  first  principles  of  his  art.  Others, 
without  the  breadth  of  mind  to  take  in  the  whole  design 
and  total  eflTect  of  a  work  of  imagination,  condemn  it  as 
licentious  by  fastening  their  moral  gripe  on  some  par- 
ticular scene,  which  should  be  viewed  in  its  relations. 
A  few,  with  a  juster  and  more  catholic  judgment,  con- 
fine the  accusation  to  books  intended  to  inflame  the  pas- 
sions and  unsettle  the  principles,  coming  from  an  incurably 
corrupt  mind,  which  basely  makes  itself  the  pander  to 
appetite  and  crime. 

Certainly,  in  this  last  meaning,  Tom  Jones  cannot  be 
pronounced  immoral.  Fielding's  object  was,  undoubt- 
edly, that  which  he  professed  in  his  preface,  —  to  recom- 
mend goodness  and  innocence ;  to  show  that  no  acquisitions 
of  guilt  can  compensate  for  the  loss  of  that  solid  inward 
comfort  of  mind  which  is  the  lot  of  the  virtuous;  to 
employ  vit  and  humor  in  laughing  men  out  of  their 
favorite  vi  :es  and  follies ;  and  to  inculcate  the  truth,  tha 


HENRY    FIELDING.  34'7 

virtue  and  innocence  fall  into  the  snares  of  deceit  and 
villany  chiefly  through  indiscretion.  Ho  also  asserts 
that  there  is  nothing  in  the  book  "  inconsistent  with  the 
strictest  rules  of  decency,  or  which  can  offend  the  chast- 
est eye  in  its  perusal,"  —  a  statement  which  sounds 
ironical  in  this  age,  but  which,  we  know,  would  not  have 
seemed  strange  fifty  years  ago.  There  are  persons 
living  now  who,  in  their  boyhood,  read  Tom  Jones  aloud 
to  their  mothers  and  a:randmothers,  without  any  thought 
of  impropriety  on  either  side. 

Not  only  must  Fielding,  be  acquitted  of  intentional 
immorality  in  his  composition  of  the  novel,  but  it  must 
also  be  allowed  that  he  has  indicated  the  connection  of 
vice  and  misery,  indiscretion  and  discomfort,  as  closely 
as  the  logic  of  Chillingworth  himself  could  rivet  it.  But 
the  true  question  of  literary  morality  lies  back  of  all  the 
considerations  to  which  we  have  referred.  The  morality 
of  a  book  is  something  unconsciously  impressed  upon  it, 
and  is  independent  of  intention.  It  takes  its  tone  from 
the  character  of  the  author,  rather  than  from  his  opinions 
or  his  will.  If  sensuality  or  malice  pervades  his  mind, 
it  will  find  vent  in  his  book,  however  cautiously  he  may 
abstain  from  directly  expressing  it,  however  affluent  he 
may  be  in  moral  and  religious  commonplaces.  Thus  we 
see  many  a  modern  novel,  professing  the  loftiest  princi- 
ples and  sentiments,  seemingly  only  too  elevated  to  be 
practical,  and  yet  as  truly  licentious  as  the  amatory 
verses  of  Rochester,  or  the  rakish  comedies  of  Sedley ; 
ftnd  many  a  treatise  of  theology,  studded  all  over  with 
Scripture  quotations,  and  yet  as  malignant  and  irrelig- 
ious in  spirit  as  if  it  were  inspired  by  the  devil  himself. 

If  we  try  Fielding  by  this  test,  we  shall,  it  is  true,  find 
Tom  Jones  as  moral  as  The  Love;  if  the  Angels,  or  The 


348 


ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 


Corsair,  not  to  speak  of  Little's  poems,  Don  Juan,  and 
the  prodigies  of  profligacy  we  import  from  France ;  bul 
we  shall  not  find  it  moral  in  the  true  sense  of  the  terni; 
Fielding  suifered  too  much  from  his  own  vices  and  follies 
not  to  know  what  a  miserable  sham  and  deceit  is  that 
happiness  which  comes  from  a  violation  of  moral  laws, 
and  he  would  have  been  the  last  man  intentionally  to 
recommend  it  to  others ;  but  his  character  was  what  his 
life  had  made  it,  and  his  sensations  accordingly  pene- 
trate his  verbal  ethics,  flash  out  in  the  turn  of  his  sen- 
tences, and  peep  through  th?  best-intentioned  morsels  of 
moral  advice  he  is  so  ready  to  give.  There  were  no 
malignant  vices  in  his  composition,  nothing  Avhich  urged 
him  to  defy  heaven,  or  vilify  and  hate  man ;  but  he 
necessarily  had  too  much  toleration  for  what  Gibbon, 
with  characteristic  indulgence  to  the  sensual,  calls  the 
"amiable  weaknesses  of  our  nature;"  and  this  prevents 
him  from  arranging  his  wonderfully  vivid  representations 
in  relation  to  higher  laws  than  those  which  inhere  in  the 
things  themselves.  He  had,  in  short,  if  the  term  be 
admissible,  a  good  deal  of  honest  sensuality,  —  that  is, 
he  never  elaborately  disguised  it  in  dainty  sentiment  and 
philanthropic  metaphysics,  according  to  the  modern  cus- 
tom ;  and  though  the  quality  is  a  blot  upon  his  works, 
and  limits  the  upward  movement  of  his  mind,  it  is  hardly 
so  insidiously  depraving  as  the  Satanic  sentimentality 
and  sugared  corruption  w^hich  have  succeeded  it. 

The  brilliant  success  of  Tom  Jones,  which  lifted 
Fielding  at  once  to  an  almost  undisputed  eminence 
among  the  great  writers  of  his  century,  seems  to  have 
emboldened  him  to  proceed  in  his  new  vocation.  He 
accordingly  commenced  Amelia,  and  completed  and  pub* 
lisheri  it  in  1751,  performing,  at  the  same  time,  his  duties 


HENRY    FIELDING.  349 

as  a  magistrate,  and  occasionally  throvvirg  off  a  pam- 
phlet on  some  subject  which  engaged  public  attention  at 
the  time.  His  proposal  for  making  an  effectual  provision 
for  the  poor,  proves  that  he  had  applied  his  mind  with  no 
inconsiderable  force  to  social  and  political  questions ;  and 
his  short  essay  on  the  mysterious  case  of  Elizabeth  Can- 
ning, "  in  which,"  as  Scott  observes,  "  he  adopted  the 
cause  of  common  sense  against  popular  prejudice,  and 
failed,  in  consequence,  in  the  object  of  his  publication," 
reflected  credit  on  his  sagacity  and  his  benevolence. 

Amelia  is  a  novel  not  generally  read,  even  by  those 
who  appreciate  the  other  works  of  Fielding.  It  must  be 
adipitted  that  it  indicates  a  decay  of  vigor,  not  in  the 
delii.eation  of  character  or  in  the  vividness  of  particular 
scenes,  but  in  that  fusion  of  all  the  parts  into  a  living 
whole,  and  that  elastic  and  onward  movement  of  the  nar- 
rative, which  are  the  charm  of  Tom  Jones.  It  lingers 
and  loiters  at  times  around  a  character  or  an  incident, 
not  lovingly  and  in  the  spirit  of  enjoyment,  as  in  Joseph 
Andrews,  but  seemingly  from  a  lack  of  strength  or  inven- 
tion to  proceed.  But  of  all  his  novels,  it  leaves  the  finest 
impression  of  quiet  domestic  delight,  of  the  sweet  home 
feeling,  and  the  humanities  connected  with  it.  We  have 
not  the  glad  spring  or  the  plowing  summer  of  his  genius, 
but  its  autumnal  mellowness  and  mitigated  sunshine, 
with  something  of  the  thoughtfulness  befitting  the  season. 
Amelia  herself,  the  wife  and  the  mother,  arrayed  in  all 
matronly  graces,  with  her  rosy  children  about  her,  is  a 
picture  of  womanly  gentleness  and  beauty,  and  unosten- 
tatious heroism,  such  as  n:3ver  leaves  the  imagination  in 
which  it  has  once  found  a  place.  This  char?c';  r  Field- 
Vig  is  said  to  have  drawn  from  the  model  ol  his  first 
wife,  while  in  Booth  he  intended,  partly,  at  least,  to 


350  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

represent  the  weaknesses,  follies,  and  improvidence,  which 
characterized  himself.  Nothing  can  be  more  beautifu] 
than  the  fidelity  with  which  Amelia  adheres  to  her  affec- 
tionate but  unv>rthy  husband,  the  refinement  of  love  she 
displays  in  concealing  from  him  her  knowledge  of  his 
intrigue  with  Miss  Matthews,  and  the  full-hearted  affec- 
tion with  which  she  greets  him  on  his  return  from  every 
adventure  in  which  his  imprudence  has  laid  up  a  nev 
store  of  sorrows  for  herself.  Booth  never  thinks  her 
unreasonable  but  on  two  occasions,  when  she  insists  on 
his  breaking  off  his  acquaintance  with  two  friends,  appar- 
ently from  mere  caprice.  He  afterwards  discovers  that 
they  were  pestering  her  with  dishonorable  proposals,  and 
that  she  would  not  tell  him  the  true  reason  of  her  dis- 
like, from  the  apprehension  that  the  result  would  be  a 
duel. 

Most  of  Fielding's  pathos  is  unintentional  and  uncon- 
scious, and  is  commonly  overlooked  both  by  readers  and 
critics;  but  there  is  one  scene  in  this  novel  which  goes 
directly  to  the  heart.  We  refer  to  that  where  Amelia  is 
represented  alone  at  evening  in  her  little  room,  expect- 
ing, after  a  weary  day  of  anxiety  and  care,  her  husband 
to  supper,  and  pleased  at  the  idea  that  she  has  prepared 
a  meal  of  which  he  is  particularly  fond.  She  waits  hour 
after  hour  until  midnight,  but  he  does  not  come.  It 
appears  that  he  is  at  the  gaming-table  with  Captain 
Trent,  hazarding  and  losing  guineas  by  the  score,  and 
iaying  up  fresh  troubles  for  himself  and  her.  She,  the 
same  afternoon,  had  checked  a  desire  to  buy  some  little 
luxury  for  herself,  because  it  would  cost  sixpence,  a  sura 
she  thought  she  could  not  spare  from  their  small  hoard 
We  are  inclined  to  forgive  Captain  Booth  all  his  errors 
nut  this  disappointment  to    Amelia.      No  reader    eve 


HENRY    FIELr  NG.  351 

nustered  sufficient  charity  to  cover  that  cruel  thought 
essness,  although  the  wife  pardoned  it  at  once. 

The  characters  of  this  novel  are  delineated  in  Field 
mg's  most  felicitous  manner,  and  pcssess  sufficient  vari 
ety  to  have  established  a  reputation  for  any  other  author. 
Dr.  Harrison,  a  clergyman  after  the  style  of  Parson 
Adams,  but  discriminated  from  him  by  his  abruptness  of 
tone,  his  greater  knowledge  of  the  world  and  a  cyni 
cism  assumed  to  veil  a  boundless  beneficence,  is  a  grand 
personation  of  practical  Christianity.  Sergeant  Atkin- 
son, w^ith  his  deep,  quiet,  humble  love,  his  devotion  to 
Booth  and  Amelia,  his  self-sacrificing  generosity,  is  one 
of  those  embodiments  of  goodness  of  heart  which  Field- 
ing, to  his  honor,  delighted  to  represent.  The  fair  and 
frail  and  malicious  Miss  Matthews;  the  shrewd,  knowing, 
learned,  equivocal  Mrs.  Bennet ;  the  vapid  Mrs.  James ; 
Colonel  Bath,  with  his  high  sense  of  honor,  and  perfect 
willingness  to  blow  out  the  brains  of  his  best  friend  on 
a  punctilio ;  Colonel  James,  the  polite  town  rake,  com- 
placent in  his  shallow  baseness ;  the  dogmatic  young 
theological  student,  who  violently  disputes  with  Dr. 
Harrison,  to  the  great  chagrin  of  his  politic  father,  who 
appreciates  benefices  better  than  logic  ;  the  little,  round, 
fat  Mrs.  Ellison,  the  best-natured  of  pimps  ;  and  espec- 
ially that  wretched  devotee  of  lust,  and  embodiment  of 
all  which  is  disgusting  in  sensuality,  the  lord  who  is  her 
employer,  —  are  characters  which  Fielding  in  his  best 
days  hardly  excelled.  The  descriptions  of  town  life, 
also,  are  so  graphic,  tl  at  we  seem  transported  to  the 
London  of  1750.  The  masquerade  at  Ranelagh,  and  the 
scene  at  Vauxhall,  where  the  two  brainless  town-bloods 
frighten  Amelia  and  the  children  with  their  profanity 
and    insolence,  are    caguerreotypes  of   manners,      The 


352  ESSAYS    AND    RE^  lEWS.  , 

author  evidently  intended  that  the  novel  should  have  a 
moral  effect  upon  his  readers,  and  the  fact  that  many 
scenes  would  now  be  accounted  coarse  or  licentious  only 
proves  that  manners  have  changed.  The  Beaux  Strat- 
agem, or  Love  and  a  Bottle,  would  now  be  considered 
strange  productions  to  find  in  the  hands  of  a  lady ;  yet 
the  virtuous  and  tender  Amelia,  who  reads  Barrow's 
sermons  with  so  much  profit,  and  whom  Dr.  Harrison 
considers  the  saint  of  his  church,  is  represented  as 
solacing  a  weary  hour  of  impatient  watching  in  perusing 
"  the  admirable  comedies  "  of  Farquhar. 

The  comparative  failure  of  Amelia  threw  Richardson 
and  his  admirers  into  ecstacies.  Mrs,  Donallan  asks  him 
if  he  is  going  to  leave  them  to  Captain  Booth  and  Betty 
Thoughtless  for  their  examples.  "  As  for  poor  Amelia, 
she  is  so  great  a  fool,  we  pity  her,  but  cannot  be  humble 
enough  to  desire  to  imitate  her."  Richardson,  hi  reply, 
assures  her  that  Captain  Booth  has  done  his  own  busi- 
ness ;  that  the  piece  is  as  dead  as  if  it  had  been  published 
forty  years  ago,  as  to  sale ;  and  that  Mr.  Fielding 
"  seems  in  his  last  journal  ashamed  of  it  himself,  and 
promises  to  write  no  more."  He  compliments  his  corre- 
spondent on  her  "  admirable  "  remark,  that,  by  several 
strokes  in  the  novel,  Fielding  "  designed  to  be  good,  but 
lost  his  genius,  low  humor,  and  spirit,  in  the  attempt." 
Again,  he  chuckles  over  the  assumed  fact,  that  Fielding 
had  been  beaten  by  his  own  imitators,  and  that  since  the 
time  "  his  spurious  brat,  Tom  Jones,"  met  with  its 
"  unaccountable  success,"  the  public  have  discovered 
wdiat  "  stufT"  they  have  been  admiring.  But  his  happi- 
est expression  of  petty  rancor  is  contained  in  that  letter. 
svritten  in  1752,  in  which  he  affects  to  pity  Fielding 
describes  how  he  insulted  the  sisters  of  the  latter,  by  his 


HENRY   FIELDING.  353 

depreciation  of  their  brother ;  and  narrates  the  whole  in 
a  strain  of  moral  coxcombry  unexcelled  in  the  annals  of 
Pharisaic  criticism.  "  I  could  not  help  telling  his  sisters 
that  I  am  equally  surprised  at,  and  concerned  for,  his 
continual  lowness.  Had  your  brother,  said  I,  been  born 
m  a  stable,  or  been  a  runner  at  a  sponging-house,  one 
should  have  thought  him  a  genius,  and  wished  he  had 
had  the  advantage  of  a  liberal  education,  and  of  being 
admitted  into  good  company."  He  goes  on  to  say,  that 
it  is  beyond  his  conception,  that  a  man  of  family,  having 
"  some  learning,  and  who  really  is  a  writer,  should 
descend  so  excessively  lovi'  in  his  pieces.  Who  can  care 
for  any  of  his  people  ? "  But  the  most  ludicrous  outbreak 
of  conceit,  both  of  respectability  and  wit,  follows  this 
precious  specimen  of  Christian  commiseration.  "  A  per- 
son of  honor,"  he  says,  "  asked  me,  the  other  day,  what 
he  could  mean  by  saying  in  his  Covent  Garden  Journal 
that  he  had  followed  Homer  and  Virgil  in  his  Amelia. 
I  answered,  that  he  was  justified  in  saying  so,  because 
he  must  mean  Cotton's  Virgil  Travestied,  where  the 
women  are  drabs  and  the  men  scoundrels."  Keats  rep- 
resents himself  as  once  being  in  a  very  genteel  circle 
of  wit-snappers,  who,  in  speaking  of  Kean,  the  actor, 
affected  to  regret  that  he  kept  such  low  company.  Keats 
remarks,  that  he  wished  at  the  time  he  was  one  of  that 
company.  No  one  can  read  Richardson's  correspondence, 
and  be  bored  by  the  insipidity  of  his  female  toadies 
and  persons  of  honor,  without  being  perfectly  willing 
to  exchange  their  refinement  for  Fielding's  "  excessive 
lowness." 

Fielding  was  superior  to  the  small  malice  and  misera- 
ble vanity  which  would  prompt  such  a  mode  of  attack 
Hs  that  adopted  by  RicnardSon.     To  his  large  and  tol 

VOL.  u.  23 


354  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

erant  mind,  it  would  have  appeared  ridiculous  to  wreak 
a  personal  spiie  against  an  author  by  depreciating  his 
works.  Pope  and  Swift  had  both  referred  to  him  in  early 
life,  with  a  contemptuous  fleer  at  his  talents  ;  but  it  never 
entered  his  brain  to  refuse  to  quote  and  praise  them  be- 
cause they  disliked  him.  In  the  fifth  number  of  the 
Jacobite  Journal,  published  at  a  time  when  he  knew  that 
Richardson  was  exulting  over  his  supposed  failures,  and 
making  his  genius  the  butt  of  his  insolent  pity,  he  speaks 
in  terms  of  high  eulogy  of  Clarissa  Harlowe.  He  knew 
human  nature  too  well  not  to  divine  the  meanness  to 
which  the  delineator  of  Clarissa  and  Clementina  would 
descend,  when  his  sensitive  vanity  was  stung  by  ridicule,* 
but  it  was  a  part  of  his  philosophy  to  view  such  things 
with  good-natured  indulgence,  and  not  hesitate  to  ac- 
knowledge the  good  qualities  which  might  exist  in 
connection  with  vices  so  paltry  and  so  malignant. 

Millar,  Fielding's  publisher,  paid  a  thousand  pounds 
for  Amelia,  thinking  it  would  meet  with  the  success  of 
Tom  Jones ;  but  while  it  was  in  press,  he  obtained  a 
hint  that  it  was  an  inferior  work,  and  might  turn  out  a 
bad  speculation.  His  stratagem  to  save  himself  from 
loss  indicated  the  ingenuity  of  a  master-mind  in  "  the 
trade."  At  a  general  sale  to  the  booksellers,  he  told 
them,  with  his  accustomed  tipsy  gravity,  that  he  should 
sell  his  other  publications  at  the  usual  terms,  but  that 
there  was  such  a  demand  for  Amelia  he  should  be  com- 
pelled to  decline  all  offers  for  that  except  at  a  reduced 
discount.  The  booksellers,  cunning  as  they  were,  were 
all  deceived  by  his  manner,  greedily  swallowed  the  bait, 
ftnd  the  whole  edition  was  ordered  before  it  was  pub- 
dshed. 

After   the    publication   of    his   last    novel,   Fielding 


HENRY    FIELDING.  355 

returned  to  his  former  occupation  of  newspapt  r  essayist, 
and  commenced,  in  1752,  The  Covent  Garden  Journal. 
In  this  paper  he  published  some  of  his  most  agreeable 
essays.  His  style  in  these  has  the  cosiness  and  aban- 
donment of  an  after-dinner  chat,  and  is  peculiarly  felic- 
itous in  gossiping  comments  on  literature  and  manners. 
In  this  journal  he  was  drawn  into  a  verbal  quarrel  with 
Smollett,  who  had  established  a  fame,  by  Eoderick  Ran- 
dom and  Peregrine  Pickle,  second  only  to  his  own.  The 
Journal  was  discontinued  on  account  of  Fielding's  health, 
which  now  suffered  from  a  complication  of  diseases,  of 
which  the  principal  were  asthma,  dropsy,  and  jaundice. 
The  physicians  recommended  a  milder  climate  as  the 
only  means  of  preserving  his  life,  and  Lisbon  was  fixed 
upon  for  his  residence.  Before  he  went,  however,  he 
undertook,  at  the  request  of  the  Duke  of  Newcastle,  and 
for  a  fee  of  six  hundred  pounds,  to  extirpate  some  gangs 
of  robbers  and  murderers  who  infested  the  metropolis. 
After  performing  this  duty  with  great  sagacity  and  com- 
plete success,  he  prepared  for  his  voyage.  On  the  26th 
of  June,  1754,  he  took  that  melancholy  leave  of  his 
children  which  he  has  described  with  such  affectionate 
pathos  in  his  Voyage  to  Lisbon.  This,  his  latest  work, 
cut  short  by  death,  indicates  that  his  mind  was  bright  and 
his  spirits  joyous  to  the  very  verge  of  the  tomb.  He 
died  at  Lisbon,  in  the  beginning  of  October,  1754,  in  the 
forty-eighth  year  of  his  age.  His  family,  consisting  of  a 
wife  and  four  children,  were  left  penniless,  but  were  pre- 
served from  want  by  the  kindness  of  Sir  John  Fielding, 
and  the  ever-active  charity  of  Ralph  Alfen. 

It  would  seem  that  the  most  rigid  moralist,  in  review- 
ing the  events  of  a  life  illustrated  by  virtues  so  imper- 
fectly rewarded,  and  by  vices  so  severely  expiated,  as 


356  ESSAYS    AND   REVIEWS. 

that  of  Fielding,  would  be  inclined  rather  to  regret  his 
misfortunes  than  harshly  to  condemn  his  faults.  His 
whole  existence,  from  the  age  of  twenty,  was  one  long 
struggle  with  fortune,  in  which  he  bore  humiliations  and 
experienced  distresses  which  would  have  crushed  a  more 
sensitive  spirit  at  the  outset.  His  life,  judged  by  its  ex- 
ternal events,  without  taking  into  account  the  character 
of  the  man,  appears  as  wretched  as  any  chronicled  in 
the  calamities  of  genius.  But  it  was  the  peculiar  consti- 
tution of  his  nature,  that  those  qualities  which  whirled 
him  into  excesses  blunted  the  edge  of  the  miseries  into 
which  his  excesses  plunged  him.  In  his  lowest  state,  he 
rarely  desponded,  rarely  lost  the  vigor  of  his  intellect 
and  the  gladness  of  his  disposition.  Lady  Montague, 
writing  soon  after  she  heard  of  his  death,  says  that  "his 
happy  constitution  (even  when  he  had  with  great  pains 
half  demolished  it)  made  him  forget  every  evil,  when  he 
was  before  a  venison  pasty  or  over  a  flask  of  champagne ; 
and  I  am  persuaded,"  she  adds,  "  he  knew  more  happy 
moments  than  any  prince  upon  earth.  His  natural 
spirits  gave  him  rapture  with  a  cook-maid,  and  cheer- 
fulness when  he  was  starving  in  a  garret."  As  a  conse- 
quence of  this  felicity  of  disposition,  he  never  whined 
about  his  misfortunes,  never  scolded  the  public  for 
neglecting  him,  never  represented  his  sensualities  and 
weaknesses  as  the  result  of  his  ardent  genius.  From 
all  nauseous  cant  of  this  kind,  which  so  commonly  in- 
fects authors  and  their  biographers,  Fielding's  sense  of 
humor  would  have  preserved  him,  even  if  he  had  not 
been  saved  from  it  by  his  sense  of  the  pleasurable.  And 
that  much  abused  noun  of  multitude,  the  World,  against 
whose  injustice  poets  have  ever  stormily  inveighed,  may 
6nd  two  consolations,  at  least,  for  its  comparative  neglec 


HENRY    FIELDING.  357 

of  Fielding ;  —  in  the  thought  that  it  could  not  possibly 
have  lavished  upon  him  an  amount  of  wealth  which  his 
improvidence  would  not  instantly  have  wasted ;  and  in 
the  reflection  that,  but  for  his  poverty,  he  never  would 
have  produced  those  exquisite  creations  of  humor  and 
imagination,  with  their  large  knowledge  of  human  nature 
and  their  large  toleration  of  human  infirmity,  whicb 
have  made  his  name  immortal. 


J)ANA^S  POEMS  AND  PROSE  WRITINGS/ 

This  collection  of  the  writings  of  one  of  our  deepest 
and  most  suggestive  thinkers  ought  to  have  been  made 
before,  although,  from  the  preface,  we  should  judge  that 
the  author  had  undertaken  a  somewhat  unwilling  duty 
in  making  it  even  now.  It  contains  all  of  Mr.  Dana's 
poems  and  prose  writings  formerly  published,  together 
with  a  large  addition,  in  the  shape  of  reviews  and  essays 
originally  contributed  to  various  periodicals,  and  now  for 
the  first  time  collected.  The  matter  in  the  second  vol- 
ume will  be  new  to  most  readers  who  are  familiar  with 
The  Buccaneer  and  The  Idle  Man,  it  being  wholly 
composed  of  articles  reprinted  from  the  North  American 
Review,  the  Spirit  of  the  Pilgrims,  and  a  few  other 
sources.  The  volumes  will  undoubtedly  take  a  promi- 
nent place  in  American  literature,  among  the  best  men- 
tal productions  of  the  country;  and  our  object  in  the 
present  article  is,  to  give  a  hasty  view  of  the  qualities 
of  mind  and  disposition  they  display,  and  the  peculiar 
individuality  pervading  the  whole.  We  would  not  do 
Mr.  Dana  the  injustice  to  judge  his  writings  by  any  less 
exacting  principles  than  those  which  apply  to  the  higher 
class  of  minds. 

*  Poems  and  Prose  Writings.  By  Richard  Henry  Dana.  New  York 
Baker  and  Scri.mer.  1850.  2  vols.  12mo.  pp.  443,  UO.— Christian  Ea 
amitier,  March,    1850. 


Dana's  poems  and  prose  whitings.  359 

In  Mr.  Dana's  nature  there  is  evidently  no  divorce 
between  literature  and  life,  and  he  belongs  to  a  class  of 
authors  widely  different  from  those  who  follow  letters  as 
a  profession,  as  a  trade,  as  a  means  of  amusing  others 
or  displaying  themselves.  His  writings  carry  with  them 
the  evidence  of  being  the  genuine  products  of  his  own 
thinking  and  living,  and  are  full  of  those  magical  signs 
which  indicate  patient  meditation  and  a  nature  rooted  in 
the  realities  of  things.  From  his  prevailing  seriousness, 
everything,  too,  has  a  meaning  and  purpose,  and  bears 
directly  on  the  conduct  of  life ;  and  there  are  passages 
of  a  certain  still  and  deep  intensity  which  seem  forced 
from  a  mind  eloquent  from  restrained  agony,  and  ex- 
pressive at  the  expense  of  impairing  its  vitality.  The 
objects  of  thought  seem  to  press  so  closely  upoii  his 
heart  and  brain,  that  he  cannot  remove  them  to  that  safe 
distance  which  admits  of  their  being  cheerily  contem- 
plated ;  and  he  therefore  has  little  of  that  free  swing  and 
felicitous  audacity  of  manner,  natural  to  thinkers  in 
whom  subject  and  object  are  in  genial  companionship. 
The  general  impression  which  his  works  leave  on  the 
mind  is  the  combination  of  earnestness  and  conscien- 
tiousness in  the  spirit  of  the  author,  —  an  earnestness 
which,  in  spite  of  his  clear-seeing  and  quick-shaping 
imagination,  is  apt  to  become  didactic  when  it  might  be 
representative,  and  a  conscientiousness  which  has  a  nerv- 
ous and  morbid,  as  well  as  a  muscular  and  healthy 
movement. 

There  is,  indeed,  in  Mr.  Dana's  nature  a  singular 
disagreement  between  faculty  and  disposition.  His  in- 
tellect has  an  instinctive  tendency  to  objects ;  is  clear, 
sure,  and  bright,  in  its  vision;  endowed  with  the  discern- 
ng  power  nf  the  observer  and  the  divining  power  of  the 


360  ESSAYS    AND    KEVIEWS. 

poet,  and,  in  its  natural  action,  equall}^  capable  m  the 
region  of  facts  and  in  the  region  of  principles.  His 
sensibility,  also,  is  strong  and  direct,  quick  to  feel  the 
flush  and  stir  of  great  passions,  and  impatient  of  obstacles 
which  obstruct  the  expression  of  its  wealth  of  emotion. 
As  far  as  regards  intellect  and  passion,  he  appears  the 
most  objective  and  sympathetic  of  our  poets ;  but  the 
moment  we  pass  into  the  more  subtile  sources  of  charac- 
ter, curious  to  scan  the  qualities  which  lie  nearer  the 
heart  of  his  being,  we  discover  widely  different  elements 
at  work  in  the  region  of  his  sentiments.  As  shy  and 
sensitive  as  they  are  deep  and  delicate,  these  sentiments 
exact  more  of  society  and  mankind  than  either  can  give ; 
and  the  result  is  a  peculiar  development  of  mental  dis- 
gust, compounded  of  self-distrust  and  dissatisfaction  with 
the  world,  which  reacts  both  upon  his  intellect  and  his 
sensibility,  introduces  a  subjective  element  into  his  clear- 
est representations,  and  sometimes  hurries  his  mind  from 
objects  into  ideal  reveries  suggested  by  objects.  His 
finer  affections,  the  saint-like  purity  of  his  moral  feelings, 
the  sentiments  of  awe,  wonder,  reverence,  and  beauty, 
incorporated  with  his  religious  faith,  though  fine  and 
rare  elements  of  his  soul,  are  hardly  elements  of  power, 
for  they  have  not  been  harmoniously  blended  with  the 
other  qualities  of  his  character.  Had  these,  which  are 
most  assuredly  the  deepest  things  in  his  nature,  flowed 
in  a  healthy  current  through  his  intellect,  the  creative 
DOwer  of  his  mind  would  have  been  increased,  a  more 
joyous  and  elastic  spirit  would  bound  through  his  pro- 
ductions, and  his  large  nature  would  have  had  a  grander 
impetus  in  its  lyric  expression,  and  a  sunnier  energy  in 
its  representations  of  external  life.  As  it  is,  we  have  in 
these  volumes  the  records  of  a  great  mind,  but  of  one 


Dana's  poems  and  prose  writings.  361 

which  a},  pears  to  have  been  placed  in  circumstances  not 
conducive  to  its  genial  development,  —  a  mind  in  whom 
noble  virtues  and  refined  sentiments  have  acted  as 
restraints  rather  than  inspirations;  —  humility  being 
separated  from  force ;  modesty  producing  a  slightly 
morbid  self-consciousness,  generating  self-distrust,  and 
impairing  the  will's  vital  energies;  exquisite  sensibility 
to  !he  beautiful  expended  more  in  contemplating  than  in 
creating  beauty ;  moral  sentiment  divorced  from  moral 
audacity;  —  and  all  these  subtile  inward  workings  and 
cross  movements  of  elusive  emotions  going  on  in  a  really 
broad  and  high  mind,  resolute  in  its  grasp  of  the  realities 
of  things,  with  instincts  for  the  great  in  thought  and  the 
daring  in  action,  and,  at  times,  tearing  its  way  into  ex- 
pression with  a  fierce  rending'  apart  of  the  fine  web  of 
feelings  in  which  its  activity  is  entangled.  In  many  of 
his  writings  he  seems  a  kind  of  Puritan-Cavalier,  with 
the  Puritan's  depth  of  religious  experience  without  his 
self-will,  with  the  Cavalier's  tastes  and  accomplishments 
without  his  self-abandonment ;  and  he  accordingly  has 
neither  the  strength  of  fanaticism  nor  the  impetus  of 
sensibility. 

This  inward  shrinking  from  the  exercise  of  undoubted 
power,  this  moral  fastidiousness  of  a  strong  moral 
nature,  this  mental  disgust  "  sickling  o'er  "  the  energi'is 
of  a  great  mind,  though  doubtless  to  be  referred,  in  some 
degree,  to  inward  constitution,  must  be  accounted  for 
principally  by  the  fact  that  Mr.  Dana's  life  has  been  one 
of  antagonism  to  the  tastes  and  opinions  of  the  com- 
munity in  which  he  was  placed.  As  a  poet,  as  a  critic, 
as  a  speculator  on  government  and  social  phenomena, 
he  has  shown  the  force,  grasp,  and  comprehensiveness, 
of  his  intellect ;  but  he  has  always  been  in  opposition  to 


J2  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

.urrent  schools  and  systems.  If  this  had  been  owing  tc 
«  natural  combativeness  of  disposition,  it  would  have 
brought  with  it  its  own  "  exceeding  great  reward  ;  "  for, 
on  the  ground  of  mere  self-satisfaction,  few  persons  are 
more  to  be  envied  than  pugnacious  disputants  :  but  Mr. 
Dana's  nature  is  as  averse  to  controversy  as  it  is 
solicitous  for  the  truth,  and  he  found  himself  in  opposi- 
tion because  he  had  positive  principles  in  art  and  phi- 
losophy as  distinguished  from  conventional  rules  and 
empirical  generalizations.  At  present  his  views  would 
generally,  excite  nothing  more  than  respect  and  admira- 
tion for  the  thinker  ;  but  at  the  time  they  were  first 
announced  they  fell  upon  a  politely  unsympathizing 
.audience,  disposed  to  consider  them  as  the  freaks  of 
spiritual  caprice,  and  perfectly  masters  of  that  subtile 
superciliousness  which  eats  into  the  very  heart  of  a  man 
who  is  at  once  modest  and  earnest.  His  critical  princi- 
ples were  radically  those  of  Lessing  and  Schlegel,  of 
Wordsworth  and  Coleridge,  principles  which  are  an 
accurate  philosophical  statement  of  the  processes  of  all 
creative  minds ;  but  he  did  not  possess  the  peculiai 
egotism  which  enabled  Wordsworth,  and  the  peculiai 
dogmatism  which  enabled  Coleridge,  to  bear  with  dog- 
ged contempt,  or  voluble  and  passionate  replication,  the 
common  smiling  indifTerence  and  the  occasional  sharp 
attacks  of  his  opponents.  This  lack  of  recognition  when 
there  is  really  nothing  in  the  mode  of  presentation  to 
excite  silent  or  stormy  opposition,  —  this  struggle  of  one 
man  against  ten  thousand,  to  substitute  positive  princi 
pies  for  empirical  rules,  —  is  especially  saddening  to  a 
nature  as  sympathetic  as  it  is  strong,  and  as  shy  as  it  it 
earnest.  Mr.  Dana  persisted,  in  spite  of  unpopularity,  i> 
is  true,  and  wrote   in  verse  and  prose  accordino;  to  hi? 


DANA'S    poems    AMD    PROSE    WRITINGS.  363 

Dwn  k.eas ;  but  his  persistence  lacked  geniality.  A 
notion  appears'  to  have  risen  in  his  mind  of  a  natural 
antithesis  between  popularity  and  excellence,  —  a  sure 
sign,  perhaps,  that  popularity  was  necessary  to  the 
healthy  action  of  his  nature ;  that  he  required  echoes  of 
his  mind  from  without  to  assure  him  that  there  was 
really  power  within.  Cheerfulness,  and  the  joyous  exer- 
cise of  creative  energy,  are  so  characteristic  of  assured 
genius,  that  we  doubt  if  such  an  antithesis  ever  arose  in 
a  thoroughly  live  and  sunny  nature.  If  Mr.  Dana  had 
been  as  popular  as  he  deserved,  if  the  richness  and  depth 
of  his  mind  had  been  gladly  recognized,  the  present 
volumes  would  hardly  have  been  a  tithe  of  his  contribu- 
tions to  literature,  and  we  should  have  had  now  a  differ- 
ent class  of  personal  qualities  to  emphasize  as  character- 
istics. There  are,  in  authorship,  professors  of  the  impu- 
dent and  supercilious,  who  require  a  sharp  resistance  on 
the  part  of  the  public  to  tame  their  wilful  and  aggressive 
egotism ;  but  Mr.  Dana  belongs  to  a  class  who  arrive  at 
the  fact  of  their  excellence  rather  by  an  induction  from 
the  results  they  produce  on  the  public  mind  than  by 
self-esteem ;  and  to  such,  a  lack  of  recognition  is  hurt- 
ful. 

The  compositions  of  Mr.  Dana,  produced  under  the 
circumstances  we  have  indicated,  evince  sulRcient  intens- 
ity both  of  sensibility  and  intellect ;  but  it  is  that  kind 
of  intensity  which  declares  rather  than  disputes  with 
power,  —  which  is  strong  on  positive  grounds,  but  una- 
vailable in  attack.  Accordingly,  in  many  of  the  articles 
published  in  the  second  volume,  we  discern,  in  the  side 
references  to  opposite  opinions,  no  hearty  invective,  no 
bold  strokes  of  satire ;  but  the  fine  superciliousness  of 
the  mechanical  school  of  critics  is  met,  on  his  own  part 


364  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

with  a  scorn  as  fine.  Mr.  Dana  is  not  a  good  hater, 
because  his  mind  needs  sympathy  more  than  it  dislikes 
antagonism,  and  because  austere  principles  are  connected 
in  his  mind  with  gentle  feelings,  not  with  aggressive 
passions ;  and  his  impatience  at  error,  theretore,  rather 
frets  than  foams  into  expression. 

Though  there  is  hardly  a  page  in  Mr.  Dana's  writings 
which  does  not  declare  him  a  poet,  his  poems  are  com- 
paratively few.  These  are  now  generally  well  known, 
though  their  rare  merit  has  not  yet  been  heartily  recog- 
nized. Mr.  Dana  is  properly  of  no  particular  "  school " 
of  poetry,  but  in  the  direction  given  to  his  poetic  faculty 
we  perceive  the  influence  and  inspiration  of  Wordsworth 
and  Coleridge.  In  his  preface  to  The  Idle  Man,  he  speal  j 
of  his  friend  Bryant  as  having  lived,  when  quite  young, 
where  few  works  of  poetry  were  to  be  had,  "  at  a  period, 
too,  when  Pope  was  still  the  great  idol  in  the  Temple  of 
Art ;"  and  that,  upon  his  opening  Wordsworth's  Ballads, 
"  a  thousand  springs  seemed  to  gush  up  at  once  in  his 
heart,  and  the  face  of  nature,  of  a  sudden,  to  change 
into  a  strange  freshness  and  life."  Something  of  this 
effect  Wordsworth  appears  to  have  exerted  upon  Mr. 
Dana ;  a  a  effect,  however,  w^hich  never  was  inanifested 
in  a  conscious  or  unconscious  imitation  of  his  author, 
and  which  tended  to  develop  rather  than  submerge  his 
individuality.  Though  he  looks  at  nature  somewhat  in 
Wordsworth's  spirit,  he  never  looks  with  Wordsworth's 
eyes,  but  always  with  his  own.  The  leading  character- 
istics of  his  poems  are  the  calm,  clear  intensity  of  his 
vision  of  objects,  and  his  power  of  penetrating  them, 
through  and  through,  with  life  and  spiritual  significance. 
His  imagination  has  a  Chaucerian  certainty  in  repre- 
senting a   natural   obiect    in   its   exact  form,  color  an 


Dana's  poems  and  prose  writings.  365 

iimensions,  the  image  before  his  intellect  being  as  real 
as  if  it  were  before  his  eyes ;  and  if  he  fail  at  all  as  an 
objective  poet,  he  fails  in  interpreting  its  true  life  and 
meaning.  Nature  to  him  is  ever  symbolical  of  spirit; 
but,  instead  of  evolving  hers,  he  will  often  superadd  his 
Dvvn.  In  both  processes  there  is  life  as  well  as  form,  but 
m  one  case  we  have  the  life  of  nature,  in  the  other  the 
life  of  the  poet.  There  are  grand  examples  of  pure 
objective  imagination  in  Mr.  Dana's  poems,  in  which 
what  is  peculiar  in  the  author's  spirit  does  not  penetrate 
the  description,  and  the  whole  scene  has  the  delicious 
remoteness  of  artistical  creation ;  but  commonly  a  subtile 
tinge  of  individual  sentiment  is  diffused  over  the  picture 
he  so  distinctly  presents,  and  the  impression  which  it 
leaves  tells  us  that  the  life  communicated  to  our  hearts 
is  not  the  life  of  nature,  but  of  one  individual's  experi- 
ence. Were  Mr,  Dana  a  purely  subjective  poet,  his 
imagination  playing  whatever  freaks  with  objects  the 
caprices  of  his  individuality  might  dictate,  the  difficulty 
of  describing  the  action  of  his  mind  would  be  greatly 
lessened ;  but  the  elusive  quality  in  his  genius,  which 
analysis  is  continually  toiling  after  in  vain,  comes  from 
the  conflict  in  his  nature  between  the  objective  tendency 
of  his  intellect  and  the  subjective  tendency  of  his  dispo- 
sition. We  will  give  a  few  extracts  illustrative  of  the 
varying  operation  of  his  imagination,  according  as  it 
works  impersonally  or  with  his  peculiar  moods.  The 
following,  for  instance,  is  pure  picture :  — 

"  And  inland  rests  the  green,  warm  dell ; 
The  brook  comes  tinkling  down  its  side ; 
From  out  the  trees  the  Sabbath  bell 
Rings  cheerful,  far  and  wide, 
Mingling  its  sound  with  ileatings  of  the  flocks. 
That  feed  about  the  vale  among  the  rocks." 


366  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

Here  w£  have  complete  self-forgetfulness,  the  mind 
gazing  at  the  scene  it  has  conjured  up,  and  representing 
it  as  a  distinct  reality.  In  the  following  there  is  a  faint 
intru?ion  of  the  individual  in  the  picture  :  — 

"  'T  was  twilight  then  ;  and  Dian  hung  her  bow 
Low  down  the  west ;  and  there  a  star 
Kindly  on   hee  and  me,  from  far. 
Looked  out,  and  blessed  us  through  the  passing  glow." 

In  the  following  exquisite  poem,  the  imagery  is  so 
clear,  that  we  are  at  first  hardly  aware  that  the  whole 
takes  from  the  sadness  of  the  mood  in  which  it  is  con- 
templated a  dreamy  melancholy,  delicious  but  slightly 
morbid. 

"THE  LITTLE  BEACH-BIRD. 

"Thou  little  bird,  thou  dweller  by  the  sea. 
Why  takest  thou  its  melancholy  voice, 
And  with  that  boding  cry 
Along  the  breakers  fly? 
O,  rather.  Bird,  with  me 
Through  the  fair  land  rejoice ! 

"  Thy  flitting  form  comes  ghostly  dim  and  pale, 
As  driven  by  a  beating  slorm  at  sea  ; 
Thy  cry  is  weak  and  scared. 
As  if  thy  mates  had  shared 
The  doom  of  us  :  Thy  wail,  — 
What  doth  it  bring  to  nie  ? 

"  Thou  call'st  along  the  sand,  and  haunt'st  the  fiurge 
Restless  and  sad :  as  if,  in  strange  accord 
With  the  motion  and  the  roar 
Of  waves  that  drive  to  shore, 
One  spirit  did  ye  urge,  — 
The  Mystery,  —  the  Word. 

•'Of  thousands,  thou,  both  sepulchre  and  paJ, 
Old  Ocean !     A  requiem  o'er  the  dead, 
From  out  thy  gloomy  cells, 
A  tdle  of  mourning  tells, — 


Dana's  poems  and  prose  writings.  367 

Tells  of  man's  woe  and  fall, 
His  sinless  glory  fled. 

'  Then  turn  thee,  little  bird,  and  take  thy  flight 
Where  the  complaining  sea  shall  sadness  brings 
Thy  spirit  never  more  ; 
Come,  quit  with  me  the  shore. 
And  on  the  meadows  light. 
Where  birds  for  gladncs.  «ing!  " 

VoL  I.,  pp.  .129,  130. 

We  might  extract  from  Factitious  Life,  Thoughts 
un  the  Soul,  The  Dying  Raven,  and  Daybreak,  nu- 
merous passages  where  this  melancholy  deepens  into 
gloom,  if  not  despair,  and  while  the  poet's  hold  upon  the 
form  of  natural  objects  is  as  sure  as  ever,  the  spirit  is 
thoroughly  individual.  These  poems  could  only  have 
come  from  a  deep  experience  of  life,  and  there  is  a 
breadth  of  solemnity  to  them  whi:h  is  not  without  its 
charm ;  but  the  fatal  objection  to  them  is,  that  they  do 
not  communicate  life.  Their  tendency  is  rather  to 
awaken  a  conviction  of  wickedness  than  to  inspire  the 
energy  of  virtue.  As  lessons  in  psychology,  however, 
they  have  great  value. 

One  of  the  best  of  Mr.  Dana's  minor  poems  is.  that  on 
Chantrey's  Washington.  We  extract  it,  as  one  of  the 
fery  few  tributes  to  Washington  worthy  the  grandeur 
of  the  subject. 

"  Father  and  Chief,  how  calm  thou  stand'st  on'e  more 
Upon  thine  own  free  land,  thou  wonn'st  with  loil . 
Seest  thou  upon  thy  country's  robe  a  soil, 
As  she  comes  down  to  greet  thee  on  the  shore  ? 

"  For  thought  in  that  fine  brow  is  living  still,  — 
Such  thought  as,  looking  far  oflf  into  time. 
Casting  by  fear,  stood  up  in  ^t.Teugth  sublime, 
When  odds  in  war  shook  vak^  and  shore  anr  hill:—- 


^{68  ESSAYS    AND   REVIEWS. 

"  Such  thought  as  th  -n  possessed  thee,  when  wai  laid 
Our  deep  foundation,  —  when  the  fabric  shoolc 
With  the  wrathful  surge  which  high  against  it  broks, — 
When  at  thy  voice  the  blind,  wild  sea  was  stayed. 

•'  Hast  heard  our  strivings,  that  thou  look'st  away 
Into  the  future,  pondering  still  our  fate 
With  thoughtful  i.iind7     Tiiou  readest,  sure,  the  date 
To  strifes,  —  thou  seest  a  glorious  coming  day. 

'  For  round  those  lips  dwells  sweetness,  breathing  good 
To  sad  men's  souls,  and  bidding  them  take  heart, 
Nor  live  the  shame  of  those  who  bore  their  part 
When  round  their  towering  chief  they  banded  stood. 

"  No  swelling  pride  in  that  firm,  ample  chest ! 
The  full,  rich  robe  falls  round  thee,  fold  on  fold, 
With  easy  grace,  in  thy  scarce  conscious  hold  : 
How  simple  in  thy  grandeur,  —  strong  in  rest ! 

"  'Tis  like  thee  :  such  repose  thy  living  form 
Wrapped  round.    Though  some  chained  passion,  breaking  forth 
At  times  swept  o'er  thee  like  the  fierce,  dread  north, 
Yet  calmer,  nobler,  cam'st  thou  from  the  storm. 

"  O  mystery  past  thought !  —  that  the  cold  stone 
Should  live  to  us,  take  shape,  and  to  us  speak,  — 
That  he,  in  mind,  in  grandeur,  like  the  Greek, 
And  he,  our  pride,  stand  here,  the  two  in  one ! 

"  There  's  awe  in  thy  still  form.     Come  hither,  then, 
Ye  that  o'erthrong  the  land,  and  ye  shall  know 
What  greatness  is,  nor  please  ye  in  its  show, — 
Come,  look  on  him,  would  ye  indeed  be  men  !  " 

V)l.  I.,  pp.  127,  12&. 

The  Buccaneer  is  the  most  celebrated  of  Mr.  Dana's 
poems,  and  though  the  plan  of  the  story  is  open  to 
objections,  and  it  fails  to  reach  that  mystical  element 
of  the  mind  which  it  addresses,  the  characterization  and 
scenery  evince  great  closeness  and  force  of  imagination. 
With  some  obvious  faults,  it  appears  to  us  to  exhibit 


Dana's  poems  and  prose  writings,  369 

more  of  the  depth,  strength,  and  daring  of  genius,  thar 
any  other  American  poem.  Everything  is  realized  with 
such  intensity  that  it  could  not  have  been  written  with- 
out tears  and  shudderings,  and  there  are  portions  of  it  so 
vividly  real  and  lifelike  that  the  reader  almost  reproduces 
the  author's  mental  agony  in  reproducing  his  concep- 
tions. The  stern  condensation  of  the  diction  corresponds 
admirably  with  the  concentrated  strength  with  which  the 
author  grasps  the  central  idea  and  every  minor  detail  of 
the  poem.  The  fierce  passions  raging  through  the  whole 
are  relieved  by  numerous  passages  replete  with  the  sun- 
niest beauty  and  repose.  Throughout  the  whole,  noth- 
ing is  described,  everything  is  represented ;  and  we  can 
hardly  recollect  a  stanza  in  which  the  attention  is  drawn 
away  from  objects  to  note  the  words  which  present 
them. 

But  in  this  poem,  and  in  all  of  Mr.  Dana's  poems,  we 
notice  two  defects  which  must  always  interfere  with  his 
popularity  as  a  poet.  He  has  great  distinctness  of  men- 
tal vision,  but  little  visionary  charm ;  a  shaping  imagina- 
tion, but  no  poetic  atmosphere  encircling  the  forms  he 
creates.  He  realizes  with  great  power,  but  the  ideal  is 
almost  lost  in  the  realization.  This  is  the  more  remark- 
able, as  it  is  in  atmosphere  more  than  form  that  the 
great  poets  of  the  present  century,  and  especially  his  own 
favorites  among  them,  excel  all  others.  The  other  defect 
of  his  Muse  is  a  lack  of  melody.  This,  we  think,  is  not 
9  natural,  but  a  somewhat  wilful  defect,  —  a  mode  of 
shewing  his  contempt  for  the  smooth  conventional  versi- 
fication which  he  has  so  much  decried  as  a  critic.  As  a 
prose-writer  he  is  often  exquisitely  melodious.  Let  the 
••eader  compare  the  essay  on  Domestic  Life,  or  that  enti- 
tled Musings,  with  any  poem  in  the  present  collection; 

VOL.  II.  24 


370  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

and  he  cannot  but  be  struck  with  the  musical  flow  of  the 
one,  as  contrasted  with  the  comparatively  rugged  tramp 
of  the  other. 

As  a  prose-writer  Mr.  Dana  is  principally  known  by 
his  essays  and  stories  published  in  The  Idle  Man.  The 
second  volume  of  the  present  collection  of  his  works 
contains,  in  the  shape  of  fugitive  articles  originally  con- 
tributed to  periodicals,  as  strong  evidences  as  are  fur- 
nished by  his  more  elaborate  production  that  his  rank  as 
a  wr'ter,  in  respect  to  mere  excellence  of  style,  is  second 
to  no  other  author  in  the  country.  The  prominent  fig- 
ure in  The  Idle  Man  is  Paul  Felton,  certainly  a  creation 
which  no  reader  could  have  dreamed  would  glare  out 
upon  him  from  the  pages  of  a  book  bearing  such  a 
title.  In  respect  tc  mere  power  over  the  sensibilities,  the 
story  of  Paul  and  Esther  is  the  greatest  of  Mr.  Dana's 
works,  and  it  exhibits  a  mingled  firmness  and  vividness 
of  vision,  in  gazing  into  the  blackest  gulfs  of  Satanic 
passion,  which  cannot  but  awaken  at  times  the  reader's 
admiring  wonder.  But  the  impression  it  leaves  upon 
the  mind  is  one  of  unrelieved  horror;  and  we  suppose 
that  the  author,  on  his  own  principles  of  taste,  would 
declare  that  such  an  impression  was  altogether  removed 
from  the  purpose  of  art.  Should  an  actor  imitate  nature 
so  perfectly,  that,  when  he  is  stabbed  on  the  stage,  he 
conveyed  to  our  minds  the  same  feelings  we  should 
experience  in  witnessing  a  murder  committed  in  the 
streets,  he  would  be  called  a  bad  actor.  The  line  separ- 
ating the  sympathies  awakened  by  ideal  and  actual  dis- 
tress cannot  be  mistaken,  and  the  novelist  who  aims  to 
call  out  the  latter  succeeds  only  in  producing  the  horri- 
ble, not  ihe  beautiful  or  sublime.  The  power  displayed 
in  Caul  Felton,  therefore,  is  not  communicated  to  'he 


Dana's  poems  and  prose  WitiTiNGs.  371 

••eadar,  v)Ut  leaves  him  both  weak  and  miserable.  In  the 
story  of  Tom  Thornton,  we  have  almost  equal  power, 
with  more  relief.  Edward  and  Mary  is  a  simple  stoiy, 
in  wnich  the  author  throws  himself  confidingly  upon  the 
finer  sentiments  in  their  primitive  action,  and  the  result 
is  true  romance.  The  article  on  Kean's  Acting-  is  proba- 
bly the  finest  piece  of  critical  writing  which  any  English 
performer  ever  called  forth.  In  a  far  different  style 
are  the  essays  entitled  Domestic  Life,  and  Musings. 
The  serene  and  beautiful  wisdom  so  melodiously  con- 
veyed in  these  has  a  still,  searching  power,  which  pene- 
trates into  the  very  substance  of  the  soul,  and  both 
lurifies  and  tranquillizes. 

As  a  critic,  Mr.  Dana  manifests  the  same  hold  upon 
the  solidities  and  realities  of  life,  and  the  same  dislike 
for  the  superficial  in  intellect  and  the  conventional  in 
manners,  which  characterize  the  whole  strain  of  his 
meditations.  His  sensibility  to  poetic  excellence  has  a 
depth,  and  acuteness  which  no  mere  critic  could  reach, 
and  his  statements  are  often  better  and  truer  than  the 
most  labored  analysis  of  a  less  sympathetic  and  imagina- 
tive mind.  The  articles  in  the  present  collection,  on 
AUston's  Sylphs  of  the  Seasons,  Hazlitt's  Lectures  on 
the  English  Poets,  PoUok's  Course  of  Time,  The  Sketch 
Book,  and  Edgeworth's  Readings  on  Poetry,  are  gen- 
erally of  the  highest  order  of  critical  merit.  The  author 
deals  always  with  concrete  principles,  not  with  abstract 
propositions,  and  his  articles  are  therefore  full  of  original 
power  and  beauty,  and  ever  contributions  to  the  subjects 
he  discusses.  They  contain  sentences  of  clear  sweetness, 
of  vivid  description,  of  penetrating  remark,  which  leave 
a  lingering  senoe  of  delight  in  the  mind  long  after  it  has 
passed  on  to  t  ;e  topic  which  succeeds.     The  observa- 


372 


ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 


tions  with  which  Mr.  Dana  commences  the  review  of 
Allston's  poem  are  more  poetical  than  any  extracts  he 
makes  from  it.  "  His  mind,"  he  says,  "  seems  to  have 
in  it  the  glad  but  gentle  brightness  of  a  star,  as  you 
look  up  to  it,  sending  pure  influences  into  your  hearty 

and  making  it  kind  and  cheerful He  has  not 

only  an  eye  for  nature,  but  a  heart  too  ;  and  his  imag- 
ination gives  them  a  common  language,  aiid  they  talk 

together He  views  his  scene^  with  a  curious  and 

exquisite  eye,  instilling  some  delicate  beauty  info  the 
most  common  thing  that  springs  up  in  them,  imparting 
to  it  a  gay  and  fairy  spirit,  and  throwing  over  the  whole 
a  pure,  floating  glow."  Allston's  satire,  he  says,  "  ap- 
pears so  bright  and  playful,  that  the  fairest  prospects 
look  gladder  in  it,  and  we  see  it  flickering  along  the 
more  gloomy,  like  a  stream  of  moonlight,  stretching  a 
glittering  and  silvery  line  over  the  steely  blackness  of 
the  waters,  as  they  lie  sleeping  under  the  brown,  solemn 
hills." 

The  following  extract,  relating  generally  to  the  poet, 
is  exceedingly  beautiful,  and  illustrates  that  union  of 
power  and  repose  which  constitutes  so  much  of  the  charm 
of  Mr.  Dana's  prose  style  :  — 

"Little,  indeed,  do  such  men  see,  that  the  out-of-door  indus- 
Iry,  which  leads  to  wealth  and  importance,  owes  much  to  the 
^oet  for  its  thriving  existence ;  that  the  poetry  of  a  pec.ple  ele- 
vates their  character,  and  makes  them  proud  of  themselves ; 
quickens  the  growth  of  the  nicer  feelings,  and  tones  the  higher 
virtues  ;  that  it  causes  blessings  to  shoot  up  round  our  homes  ; 
smooths  down  the  petty  roughness  of  domestic  life,  and  softens 
and  lays  open  the  heart  to  the  better  affectio^is  ;  that  it  calls  the 
mind  off  from  the  pursuits  of  the  tainted  and  wearing  pleasures 
01  the  world,  and  teaches  it  to  find  its  amusements  in  the  exer 
cisi;  of  its  highest  and  purest  powers ;  that  it  makes  the  inte 


D-VNAS    P0E3IS    AND    PROSE    WRITINGS.  373 

\ect  n\acious,  and  gives  an  interest  and  stir  to  the  society  of 
the  wise ;  shames  us  from  our  follies  and  crimes,  turns  us  to 
the  love  and  study  of  what  is  good,  gives  health  to  the  moral 
system,  and  brings  about  what  must  always  go  along  with  the 
virtue  of  society,  the  beauty  of  order  and  security.  Little,  too, 
do  they  know  of  the  poet's  incessant  toil.  His  eyes  and  thoughts 
are  ever  busy  amidst  the  forms  of  things.  He  looks  into  the 
intricate  machinery  of  the  heart  and  mind  of  man,  and  sees  its 
workings,  and  tells  us  to  what  end  it  moves.  He  goes  forth 
with  the  sun  over  the  earth,  and  looks  upon  its  vastness  and 
sublimity  with  him,  and  searches  out  with  him  every  lesser 
thing.  His  studies  end  not  with  the  day  ;  but  when  the  splen- 
dor of  the  M'est  has  died  away,  and  a  sleepy  and  dusky  twilight 
throws  a  shadowy  veil  over  all  things,  and  he  feels  that  the 
spirit  which  lifted  him  up  and  expanded  his  frame,  as  he  looked 
forward  on  the  bright  glories  of  the  setting  sun,  has  sunk  slowly 
md  silently  down  with  them,  and  that  the  contemplative  light 
about  him  has  entered  into  his  heart,  and  the  gladness  of  the 
day  left  him,  he  turns  and  watches  the  lighting  up  of  the  reli- 
gious stars,  by  which  he  studies  in  soberer  and  more  intent 
thought  the  things  that  God  has  made." 

The  essays  in  the  second  volume  on  Old  Times,  The 
Past  and  Present,  and  Law  as  suited  to  Man,  are  among 
the  best  evidences  which  Mr.  Dana  has  given  of  the 
philosophical  capacity  of  his  mind.  They  are  good 
illustrations  of  the  difference  between  principles  and 
propositions,  the  author's  imagination  and  sentiment,  as 
well  as  his  understanding,  being  active  throughout. 
Thej  are  characterized  by  the  intensest  spirit  of  medita- 
tion, and  a  calm,  strong  grasp,  and  close  application,  of 
principles.  The  introspective  and  retrospective  elements 
of  his  nature,  however,  appear  in  these  essays  in  their 
most  refined  operation.  The  past  is  subtly  identified 
with  its  ideals,  the  present  is  criticized  in  the  light  of 
those  ideals,  and  tested  by  their  most  exacting  require- 


374  ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

ments.  The  result  is  a  kind  of  despair  for  the  present, 
and  a  lack  of  hopefuhiess  in  surveying  the  future.  De- 
mocracy, especially,  has  little  justice  done  to  it.  But 
still,  the  most  besetting  sins  and  dangers  of  the  country 
are  exhibited  in  an  original  and  forcible  manner,  without 
any  appeal  to  the  controversial  passions,  and  the  essays 
leave  a  profound  impression  of  the  author's  depth  of 
nature. 

From  the  exceedingly  complex  character  of  Mr.  Dana's 
genius,  we  have  been  able,  in  these  hasty  observations, 
to  give  but  an  imperfect  exhibition  of  that  peculiar  com- 
bination of  mental  and  moral  qualities  which  constitutes 
the  life  of  his  writings.  The  best  criticism  on  the  pres- 
ent volumes  is  that  which  most  strongly  directs  the  pub- 
lic attention  to  them,  for  they  cannot  be  read  without 
mental  and  spiritual  improvement;  and  we  trust  that 
their  circulation  will  be  large  enough  to  give  a  flattering 
idea  of  the  estimate  placed  in  the  United  States-  upon 
g^eat  and  rare  powers  devoted  to  high  purposes. 


APPENDIX. 


THOMAS   HOOD.* 

Thi:  name  of  Thomas  Hood  is  known  wherever  language  ia  put 
upon  the  rack.  Every  civilized  Englishman  who  uses  words  is 
acquainted  with  the  great  word-twister.  He  is  the  acknowledged 
monarch  of  Pun-land.  All  other  luminaries  "  pale  their  inef- 
fectual fire  "  before  the  quick  sparkle  of  his  multitudinous  quib- 
bles. He  has  made  punning  a  kind  of  genius.  He  has  redeemed 
it  from  the  detractions  of  the  dull  and  pedantic.  Any  man  may 
now  play  upon  words,  without  having  his  friend  point  significantly 
to  the  gallows,  and  murmur  that  "  he  who  makes  a  pun  would 
pick  a  pocket."  What  King  James,  and  Bacon,  and  Shakspeare, 
and  Donne,  and  Cowley,  could  not  do,  —  what  Canning  and  the 
whole  Anti-Jacobin  club  could  not  effect,  —  has  been  done  by 
Thomas  Hood.  The  analogies  of  sound  seem  now  as  much  prized 
as  those  of  thought.  The  fact  that  the  greatest  men  in  aU  ages 
have  displayed  a  love  for  this  kind  of  wit,  must  be  admitted  as  a 
strong  argument  in  its  favor.  The  "  verbal  Unitarians,"  as  Hood 
calls  his  opponents,  have  been  compelled  to  abate  the  insolence  of 
their  censures,  and  relax  the  grimness  of  feature  with  which  they 
once  frowned  defiance  on  double-meanings.  The  great  family  of 
Words,  which  might  be  supposed  most  interested  in  the  issue  of 
the  struggle,  have  willingly  given  up  their  frames  ^o  the  torture, 
and  suffer  martyi'dom  daily.  The  priests  in  the  Inquisition  of 
Verbiage,  with  their  racks,  wheels,  scoui-ges,  and  hot-irons,  are 

*  "  Whims  and  Odd.  'es  "  iid  "  Prose  and  Verse-" 


376  APPENDIX. 

doing  what  is  called  a  "  fair  business;"  and  every  shi'iek  drawn 
from  the  agonies  of  a  tortured  word  is  registered  as  a  pun. 

Hood,  then,  has  so  far  influenced  the  legislation  of  letters  as  t« 
turn  quibbling  from  a  crime  into  a  fashion  ;  but  his  own  popular- 
ity as  a  humorist  is  not  owing  altogether  to  his  word-twistings. 
He  has  one  of  the  most  singular  minds  ever  deposited  in  a  human 
brain.  Whims  and  oddities  come  from  him,  because  he  is  himself 
a  whim  and  oddity.  He  seems  of  different  natures  mixed.  He 
has  the  fancy,  if  not  the  imagin!),tion,  of  a  poet,  and  some  touches 
of  pathos  almost  equal  to  the  most  brilliant  scintillations  of  his 
wit.  Behind  his  most  grotesque  nonsense,  there  is  generally  some 
moral,  satii'ical,  or  poetic  meaning.  He  often  blends  feeling, 
fancy,  wit,  and  choughtfulness,  in  one  queer  rhyme,  or  quaint 
quibble.  The  very  extravagance  of  his  ideas  and  expression;  the 
appearance  of  strain  and  effort  in  his  puns;  the  portentous 
jumbling  together  of  the  most  dissimilar  notions  by  some  merry 
craft  of  fancy;  and  the  erratic,  dare-devil  invasion  of  the  inmost 
sanctuaries  of  conventionalism,  have,  in  his  writings,  a  peculiar 
charm,  which  we  seek  for  in  vain  among  his  imitators,  or  among 
the  tribe  of  extravagant  wits  generally.  We  do  not  believe  he 
would  be  so  fine  a  humorist,  if  he  were  not  so  much  of  a  poet. 
There  is  a  vein  of  genial  kindliness  in  his  nature,  which  modifies 
the  mocking  and  fleering  tendencies  of  his  wit. 

Hood  was  no  humorist  in  the  sense  in  which  the  word  is  some- 
times employed.  He  was  no  mere  provoker  of  barren  laughter, 
but  a  man  whose  mirth  had  its  roots  deep  in  sentiment  and 
humanity.  He  saw  the  serious  side  of  life  as  clearly  as  the  ludi- 
orous.  He  knew  what  tliin  partitions  separate  in  this  world  tears 
from  laughter;  that  the  deepest  feeling  often  expresses  itself  in 
the  quaint  oddities  of  caricature;  that  wisdom  sometimes  conde- 
scends to  pun,  and  grief  to  wreathe  its  face  in  smiles.  Indeed, 
there  is  occasionally  a  little  misanthropy  in  him.  A  close  observer 
of  his  writings  will  often  see  a  bitter  personal  experience  of  the 
author  embodied  in  the  most  farcical  and  bewildering  freaks  of  his 
fun.  Hood  makes  us  sympathize  more  quickly  with  the  troubles 
of  his  life,  fi'om  not  thrusting  them  in  our  faces,  with  the  usua» 
parade  of  sorrow  and  lamentation.  We  laugh  with  him,  and  fee. 
for  him.  Few  writers  have  ever  succeeded  in  blending  so  much 
thought  and  sentiment,  so  much  true  humor  and  no  less  tru« 


THOMAS    HOOD.  377 

pathos,  with  the  most  extravagant  drollery  and  fanciful  exagger- 
ation. 

Two  of  the  most  ludicrous  of  Hood's  punning  poems  are  the 
lachrymose  ballads  of  "Sally  Brown  and  Ben  the  Carpenter," 
ai^d  "Faithless  Nelly  Gray."  The  mockery,  in  these  exquisite 
morceaux,  of  the  plaintive  style  of  the  modern  ballad,  glistens  with 
wit  and  humor.  They  are  so  well  known  that  to  extract  from 
them  would  be  an  impei^tinence.  "  The  AVee  Man"  is  another 
queer  specimen  of  his  drollery.  In  the  poem  called  "  Jack  Hall," 
(Jackal)  the  resurrectionist,  he  commences  with  wailing  the  cus- 
tom of  disinterring  bodies,  and  remarks,  with  much  logical  feel- 
ing:— 

"  'T  is  hard  one  cannot  lie  amid 
The  mould  beneath  a  coffin  lid, 
But  thus  tlie  Faculty  will  bid 

Their  rogues  break  through  it ! 
If  they  don't  want  us  there,  why  did 
They  send  us  to  it  ?  " 

The  situation  of  the  lover,  who  comes  to  sentimentalize  over  his 
mistress's  grave,  is  thus  vividly  portrayed  :  — 

"  The  tender  lover  comes  to  rear 
Tlie  mournful  urn,  and  shed  his  tear  — 
Her  glorious  dust,  he  cries,  is  here  I 

Alack !  alack ! 
The  while  his  Sacharissa  dear 

Is  in  a  sack!  " 

Here  is  a  grave,  grim,  and  dismal  pun  :  — 

"  Death  saw  two  players  playing  at  cards, 
But  the  game  was  not  worth  a  dump. 
For  he  quickly  laid  them  flat  with  a  spade, 
To  wait  for  the  final  trump ! " 

Hood's  wit  plays  about  the  tomb  somewhat  daringly,  but  still 
he  can  hardly  be  said  to  disturb  its  sanctities.  In  the  ballad  of 
"  Mary's  Ghost"  he  makes  the  poor  spu'it  lament  the  distribution 
of  her  former  body  among  the  physicians.     She  cries   -  - 

"  O  William  dear  1    O  William  dear  I 
My  rest  eternal  ceases  ; 
Alas !  my  everlasting  peace 
la  broken  into  pieces. 


378  APPENDIX. 

"The  body-snatchers,  they  have  come, 
And  made  a  snatch  at  me  ; 
It 's  very  hard  them  kind  of  mefi 
Won't  let  a  body  be." 

After  mueh  agonizing  description,  respecting  the  disposition  of 
the  several  parts  of  lier  once  compact  frame,  slie  concludes  :  — 

"  The  cock  it  crows  —  I  must  be  gone  ! 
My  William,  we  must  part ! 
But  I  '11  be  yours  in  death,  although 
Sir  Astley  has  my  heart. 

"  Uon't  go  to  weep  upon  my  grave, 
And  think  that  there  I  be  ; 
They  have  h't  left  an  atom  there 
Of  my  anatomie." 

One  of  the  finest  things  in  "Prose  and  Verse  "  is  the  piece 
called  "  The  Great  Conflagration."  It  refers  to  the  burning  of 
the  Houses  of  Parliament,  in  1834,  and  consists  chiefly  of  letters 
written  by  Sir  Jacob  Jubb,  M.  P.,  and  various  members  of  his 
household,  descriptive  of  the  event.  Sir  Jacob  was  severely  burnt, 
"by  taking  his  seat  in  the  House,  on  a  bench  that  was  burning 
under  him.  The  danger  of  his  situation  was  several  times  pointed 
out  to  him,  but  he  replied  that  his  seat  had  cost  him  ten  thousand 
pounds,  and  he  could  n't  quit.  He  was  at  length  removed  by 
force."  The  richest  epistolary  gem  is  the  letter  of  Ann  Gale, 
housemaid.  Her  speculations  on  the  fire  are  very  deep.  She 
understands  that  "  The  Lords  and  Commons  was  connected  with  a 
grate  menny  historicle  associashuns,  zvich  of  coarse  will  hav  to 
make  good  all  dammage."  Her  feelings  are  strongly  enlisted 
in  favor  of  the  members.  "  Ware  the  poor  burnt-out  creturs  will 
go  noboddy  nose.  Sum  say  Exetur  Hall,  sum  say  the  Refudge  for 
the  Destitut,  and  sura  say  the  King  will  lend  them  his  Bensh  to 
set  upon."  She  tells  her  correspondent  that  the  fear  of  fire  leaves 
her  no  peace.  "  I  don't  dare  to  take  my  close  off  to  go  to  bed, 
and  I  practise  clambering  up  and  down  by  a  rop  in  case,  and  I  giv 
Police  Man  25  a  shillin  now  and  than  to  keep  a  specious  eye  tc 
nuu:'7}r  fore,  and  be  reddy  to  ketch  anny  one  in  his  harms.  *  * 
*  *  0  !  Mary,  how  happy  is  them  as  livs  lick  you,  as  the 
song  says,  '  Fur  from  the  buzzy  aunts  of  men.'  Don't  neglect  tc 
take  out  ewery  nite,  see  that  ewery  sole  in  the  hows  is  turoed 


THOMAS    HOOD.  379 

down  xtinguished,  and  allways  bio  youreself  out  befoure  you  go  to 
youre  piller." 

"  The  Bridge  of  Sighs,"  "  The  Lady's  Dream,"  and  the  "  Song 
of  the  Shkt,"  all  having  reh^tiou  to  the  claims  of  poverty  and 
wretchedness,  are  included  in  this  collection.  The  long  prose 
paper,  entitled  "  Copyright  and  Coi^ywrong,"  originally  contrib 
utcd  to  the  London  Athenaeum,  represents  Hood  pleading  for  his 
own  craft,  in  his  own  peculiar  way.  The  question  never  was  dis- 
cussed with  more  liveliness,  if  with  more  cogency.  Li  alludmg  to 
American  republications,  he  disclaims  hostility  to  the  United 
States  in  very  characteristic  expression.  "  The  stars  and  stripes," 
he  says, "  do  not  affect  me  like  a  blight  in  the  eye,  nor  does  Yankee 
Doodle  give  me  the  ear-ache.  I  have  no  wish  to  repeal  the  Union 
of  the  United  States;  nor  to  alter  the  phrase  in  the  Testament  into 
'  i-epubUcans  and  sinners.'  In  reality,  I  have  rather  a  Davidish 
feeling  toward  Jonathan,  remembering  whence  he  comes,  and  what 
language  he  speaks  ;  and  holding  it  better  in  such  cases  to  have 
the  wit  that  traces  resemblances,  than  the  judgment  which  detects 
differences,  —  and  perhaps  foments  them."  Toward  the  close  of 
one  portion  of  his  quaint  pleadings  for  the  rights  of  authors.  Hood 
bursts  out  in  an  eloquent  acknowledgment  of  his  obligations  to 
literature,  and  to  men  of  genius.  "  They  were,"  he  says,  "  my 
interpreters  in  the  House  Beautiful  of  God,  and  my  Guides  among 
the  Delectable  Mountains  of  Nature.  They  reformed  my  preju- 
dices, chastened  my  passions,  tempered  my  heart,  purified  my 
tastes,  elevated  my  mind,  directed  my  aspirations.  I  was  lost  in 
a  chaos  of  undigested  problems,  false  theories,  crude  fancies, 
obscure  impulses,  and  bewildering  doubts,  —  when  these  bright 
intelligences  called  my  mental  world  out  of  darkness  like  a  new 
creation,  and  gave  it  '  two  great  lights,'  Hope  and  Memory, —  the 
past  for  a  moon,  and  the  future  for  a  sun." 

This  touches  the  real  point  in  every  discussion  respecting  the 
rights  of  authors.  We  owe  them  a  debt  of  gratitude,  which  we 
should  taKe  pleasure  in  repaying.  Instead  of  doing  this,  we  avail 
ourselves  of  every  subterfuge  of  quibbling,  to  justify  the  most 
selfish  and  heartless  conduct  tr wards  them.  The  book  that  comes 
to  us  as  a  benefactor,  —  which  opens  +o  our  view  boundless 
domains  of  beauty  and  grandeur, — which  makes  itself  "  feit  in 
the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart;"  is  it  consistent  that  vr« 


380  APPENDIX. 

should  be  so  careful  to  reckon  its  exact  value  in  tlie  current  coin 
of  the  land  ?  Is  it  not  ridiculous  for  us  to  play  a  huckstering 
trade  with  the  man  who  is  to  pour  into  our  minds  the  infinite 
riches  of  his  genius  ?  While  our  hearts  are  overflowing  with 
kindliness  for  him  who  has  peopled  our  solitude  with  beings  of 
unearthly  sweetness  and  majesty,  —  who  has  thrown  celestial 
light  around  the  bed  of  sickness  and  pain,  —  who  has  spoken  a 
word  of  cheer  to  us  in  many  a  period  of  sorrow  and  abasement, — 
whose  great  heart  has  beaten  close  to  ours  in  many  a  moment  of 
passionate  exaltation;  —  who,  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow  and  the 
sweat  of  his  brain,  has  passed  long  years  of  labor  in  order  that 
oui-  lives  might  be  made  more  beautiful  and  happy,  —  shall  we 
grudge  him  the  just  rewards  of  his  labor,  —  shall  we  compliment 
ourselves  on  our  shrewdness  in  being  able  to  steal  from  him  the 
means  of  subsistence  ?  What  an  antithesis  is  here,  —  what  won- 
derful exaltation  of  thought  and  feeling,  —  what  consummate 
littleness  and  meanness  of  action!  We  treat  our  greatest  friend 
and  benefactor,  for  whom  our  love  and  gratitude  should  be  bound- 
less, not  only  worse  than  we  would  treat  a  common  acquaintance, 
but  worse  than  we  would  treat  our  butcher  or  tailor.  We  would 
have  our  imaginations  exalted,  our  hearts  kindled,  our  minds 
stored;  and  then  pride  ourselves  principally  on  our  cunning  in 
evading  all  payment  for  such  a  priceless  good.  We  fear  that  our 
shrewdness  here  overleaps  itself.  It  may  be  questioned  whether 
or  not  the  serene  and  beautiful  face  of  literature  can  be  seen  in  its 
loveliness,  or  felt  in  its  power,  while  it  is  in  such  close  approxima- 
tioi  i?  th°  all-absorbing  Dollar. 


LEIGH   HUNT'S   POEMS. 

Theke  are  some  authors  whose  writings  and  conduct  we  do  not 
applaud  or  condemn  by  any  fixed  "  laws  "  of  taste  or  propriety. 
They  are  fi'ee  of  the  "  Principles  of  Rhetoric."  They  are  allowed 
to  sing  and  sin,  of  their  own  sweet  will,  without  regard  to  Doo 
tors  Blau*  and  Whately.  At  first  they  are  ridiculed  and  de 
nounced;  but,  after  the  time-honored  tortures  of  criticism  hav» 


LEIGH    HUNT  S    POEMS.  381 

been  rigorouslj  applied  to  discover  whether  their  peculiarities  are 
ingrained  or  merely  affectations,  they  are  allowed  to  practise 
whatever  verbal  gymnastics  and  pyroteclmics  they  please.  Critics 
gradually  grow  weary  of  stretching  them  on  the  rack.  Readers, 
after  a  few  petulant  remonstrances,  silently  assent  to  the  claims 
of  their  individuality.  Conservatism  nods  its  sullen  acquiescence. 
And  thus  literary  radicals,  whose  first  sallies  brought  down  upon 
their  heads  the  most  scorching  satire,  are  soon  seen  side  by  side 
with  the  legislators  and  scrupulous  Pharisees  of  letters,  and  their 
praise  is  echoed  from  lips  which  once  curled  in  polite  disgust  at 
their  outrages.  It  is  discovered  that  there  is  originality,  perhaps 
genius,  in  their  singularities  of  thought  and  diction,  and  that  a 
man  may  wi'ite  agreeable  works  without  taking  the  "  best  models" 
for  his  pattern. 

Leigh  Hunt  must  be  considered,  on  the  whole,  to  belong  to  this 
class.  In  spite  of  his  faults,  there  is  something  quite  bewitching 
in  his  character  and  poems.  We  hardly  judge  him  by  the  same 
laws  we  apply  to  other  poets;  we  are  willing  to  take  him  as  he  is. 
The  same  errors  and  fooleries  which  would  be  insufferable  in 
another,  alter  their  aspect,  if  not  their  nature,  as  observed  in  the 
easy  impudence  of  his  chirping  egotism.  No  man  has  been  more 
severely  attacked,  no  man  is  more  open  to  censure;  yet  we  fee? 
that  none  can  bear  it  with  a  more  careless  philosophy.  The  true 
object  of  punishment  is  to  reclaim,  and  Hunt  was  past  reclaiming 
before  critics  began  to  punish.  All  severity  is  lost  upon  him. 
He  is  what  he  is  by  virtue  of  his  nature.  The  jauntiness,  the 
daintiness,  the  vanity,  the  flippancy,  the  accommodating  morality, 
which  look  upon  us  from  his  life  and  writings,  and  which,  in  their 
rare  combination  in  one  peculiar  mind,  made  Byron  call  him  an 
honest  charlatan  who  believed  in  his  own  impostures,  would  be 
disgusting  if  less  in  harmony  with  the  character  of  the  individual; 
but,  considered  as  part  and  parcel  of  Leigh  Hunt,  and  of  him 
alone,  they  are  often  pleasing. 

Hunt  has  had  bitter  enemies  and  warm  friends ;  but,  from  his 
position  as  a  liberal,  his  enemies  have  possessed  the  advantage  of 
arraying  against  him  the  prejudices  of  party,  as  well  as  skilfully 
availing  themselves  of  the  weak  points  in  his  transparent  nature. 
For  many  years  he  was  pursued  with  the  fiercest  animosity  of 
political  and  personal  hatred.     His  name  has  been   used  by  a 


382  APPENDIX. 

clique  of  unscrupulous  writers  as  a  synonyme  of  everything  base, 
stupid,  brainless,  and  impudent.  His  poems  liave  been  analyzed, 
parodied,  misrejjresented ,  covered  with  every  epithet  of  contempt, 
pierced  by  every  shaft  of  malice.  Men  like  Gilford  and  Wilson 
have  sacked  the  vocabulary  of  satu-e  and  ridicule,  have  heaped 
together  ali  phrases  and  images  of  contumely,  to  destroy  his  repu- 
tation,  and  render  him  an  object  of  universal  scorn.  It  must  be 
confessed  that  the  faults  of  his  mind  and  manner,  the  faults  of  his 
taste  and  conduct,  the  presumption  witn  wliicli  he  spoke  of  his 
eminent  cotemporaries,  the  iiippaiicy  >vitli  whicli  lie  passed  judg- 
ments on  laws  and  government,  laid  him  open  to  animadversion, 
and  were,  in  some  instances,  apologies  for  the  malice  and  severity 
of  his  adversaries.  For  a  number  of  j'ears  he  was  so  pertina- 
ciously attacked  in  Blackwood's  Magazine,  in  connection  with  his 
friends,  Keats  and  Hazlitt,  that  it  almost  seemed  as  if  the  promi- 
nent object  of  that  flashing  journal  Avas  to  crush  one  poor  poet  and 
his  associates.  He  Avas  stigmatized  as  tlie  founder  and  exponent 
of  the  "  Cockney  school  of  poetry."  His  poems  were  held  up  as 
a  strange  compound  of  vulgarity  and  childishness  —  as  a  sort  of 
neutral  ground  between  St.  Giles  and  the  nursery.  His  style  was 
represented  as  a  union  of  all  in  expression  A\'hich  is  coarse  and 
affected,  with  all  that  is  feeble  and  babyish.  Byron,  who  pre- 
tended at  one  time  to  be  his  fi'iend,  says,  in  a  letter  to  Moore  — 
"He  believes  his  trash  of  A'ulgar  jjhrases,  tortured  into  compound 
barbarisms,  to  be  old  English;"  and  adds,  of  the  "  Foliage,"  that 
"of  all  the  ineffable  centaurs  that  were  ever  begotten  by  self-love 
upon  a  nightmare,  I  thiuk  this  monstrous  Sagittary  the  most 
prodigious." 

That  this  cruelty,  and,  in  numerous  cases,  elaborate  dishonesty 
of  criticism,  has  produced  no  apparent  change  in  his  disposition, 
has  never  led  him  to  correct  or  alter  any  of  the  besetting  sins  of 
his  style,  And  ha.s  not  diminished  his  popularity,  is  a  singular  fact, 
and  one  calculated  to  illustrate  how  small  can  be  the  influence  of 
malignant  criticism,  both  upon  the  mind  of  the  object  and  the 
taste  of  readers.  The  friends  of  Hunt  have  borne  patiently  all  the 
attacks  which  tlieu*  association  Avith  him  has  pi-ovoked,  and 
those  who  have  suflered  most  by  the  connection  have  been  the 
most  uncompromising  of  his  adA'ocates.  There  must  be  much 
frankness  and  genial  kuidness  in  his  nature,  tliere  must  be  mucii 


LEIGH    HUNT  a    tOKKiS. 


383 


tn  him  to  bve,  or  he  could  not  have  numbered  among  his  friends 
men  so  opposite  in  taste  and  opinion  as  Shelley,  Talfourd,  Lamb 
and  Proctor.  Shelley,  at  one  time,  gave  him  £1400  to  extricate 
him  from  pecuniary  dilnculties. 

The  character  of  Hunt  is  so  closely  connected  with  all  he  has 
written,  that  it  is  difficult  to  consider  them  apart.  "  Rimini "  is 
the  most  popular  of  his  poems,  and  it  contains  qualities  which 
will  long  sustain  its  reputation.  Its  excellences  and  its  faults  are 
both  individual  and  peculiar,  and  we  hai-dly  know  of  a  poem  mor« 
open  to  criticism.  The  subject  itself  is  not  pleasant  to  contem- 
plate, and  it  requires  the  nicest  tact  and  most  cunning  sophistry 
to  reconcile  it  to  the  moral  sense  of  the  reader.  We  are  requii-ed 
to  confound  misfortune  with  crime,  and  express  pity  instead  of 
indignation  at  unnatural  wrong.  The  morality,  separated  from 
the  poetry,  is  pernicious.  There  may  be  solitary  instances  where 
the  greatest  injury  that  can  be  inflicted  on  a  husband  may  be 
performed  by  a  brother,  and  the  crime  spring  from  cii'cumstances 
which  seem  to  mitigate  its  enormity,  hut  it  is  dangerous  to  tamper 
with  such  instances,  and  attempt  to  reconcile  them  with  the  usual 
impulses. of  affection.  If  such  a  deviation  from  nature  and  recti 
tude  be  made  the  subject  of  an  elaborate  poem ;  if  it  be  accom 
panied  by  a  luxury  of  description  which  lulls  the  conscience,  and 
creates  an  unconscious  sympathy  with  the  offenders ;  if  the  parties 
be  represented  as  superior  beings,  worthy  of  our  esteem  and  love-, 
if  they  are  decked  in  all  the  trappings  of  fancy  and  sentiment, 
and  the  steps  from  weakness  to  crime  be  taken  over  a  velvet  path, 
which  gives  no  echo  and  leaves  no  footprint;  and  if  the  author, 
all  the  while,  is  himself  fooled  by  his  own  casuistry,  and  warmlj 
sympathizes  with  his  creations,  we  do  not  see  how  the  effect  of 
such  an  assault  upon  the  conscience,  through  the  affections  and 
Bcnse  of  beauty,  can  be  otherwise  than  injurious.  The  poet  who 
deals  with  such  a  subject  should  have  an  exact  perception  of 
moral  distinctions,  and  no  loose  notions  about  the  intercourse 
between  the  sexes ;  but  Hunt  is  not  such  a  person.  His  are  the 
"self-improved  morals  of  elegant  souls."  We  believe  that  he 
might  have  taken  the  plot  of  Hamlet,  and  converted  the  crime  of 
(Jertrude  and  the  King  into  a  dainty  weakness,  eni.lLng  tragically 
hut  with  such  sadness  and   pathos  that  his  readers  would  hav» 


384  APPENDIX 

justified  him  in  burying  the  lovers  in  "  one  grave,  beneath  a  tree  * 
and  not  have  wondered  that 


"on fine  nights  in  May, 


Young  lieans  betrothed  used  to  go  there  to  play." 

We  are  in  the  custom  of  congratulating  ourselves  on  the  purity 
of  English  literature  in  this  age,  as  contrasted  with  the  coarseness 
of  the  elder  time.  This  purity,  in  many  cases,  is  only  in  expres- 
sion. A  person  of  delicacy  may  be  offended  with  many  words  in 
Shakspeare,  may  be  disgusted  with  the  hardy  licentiousness  of 
Rochester  and  Sedley,  but  may  be  corrupted  with  the  smooth 
decency  of  verbiage  which  covers  so  much  immorality  of  principle 
in  much  contemporary  poetry  and  romance. 

We  perhaps  err  in  treating  Hunt  as  if  he  were  amenable  to  the 
usual  laws  of  morality  and  taste,  after  having  exempted  him  from 
their  dominion;  but  still  no  reader  of  healthy  mind  can  fail  at 
times  to  be  provoked  by  his  lack  of  manliness,  his  effeminacy  in 
morals,  his  foppery  in  sentiment.  There  is  a  want  of  depth, 
seriousness  and  intensity,  in  him,  which  often  justify  petulance, 
if  not  anger,  in  the  reader.  His  sense  of  physical  beauty  is  ex- 
ceedingly keen  and  nice,  but  it  rarely  rises  to  spiritual  beauty. 
He  may  almost  be  described  as  a  man  with  a  fine  fancy  and  fine 
senses.  Outward  objects  awake  his  feeling  of  luxury,  fill  him 
with  delicious  sensations,  and  that  is  all.  But  judged  by  himself 
alone,  thinking  of  him  as  Leigh  Hunt,  we  cannot  fail  to  find  much 
in  him  to  admire.  His  percei^tiou  of  the  poetry  of  things  is  ex- 
quisitely subtle,  and  his  fancy  has  a  warm  flush,  a  delicacy,  an 
afiiuence,  which  are  almost  inimitable.  He  is  full  of  phrases  and 
images  of  exceeding  beauty,  which  convey  not  only  his  thoughts 
and  emotions,  but  also  the  subtlest  shades  and  minutest  threads 
of  his  fancies  and  feelings.  To  effect  this,  he  does  not  always 
observe  the  proprieties  of  expression.  He  often  produces  verbal 
combinations  which  would  make  a  lexicographer  scowl,  if  not 
curse,  and  his  daintiness  and  effeminacy  sometimes  produce  pret- 
tinesses  and  "little  smallnesses,"  which  are  not  in  the  best  taste. 
He  is  full- of  such  epithets  and  phrases  as  "balmy  briskness," 
"firming  foot,"  "feel  of  June,"  "sudden-ceasing  sound  of 
wateriness,"  "scattery  light."  He  manufactures  words  without 
any  fear  of  the  legislators  of  language.     He  links  serious  ideas  to 


LEIGH  hunt's  poems.  385 

expressions  which  convey  ludicrous  associations  to  other  minds. 
Cut  with  all  abatements,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  his  style,  in  its 
easy  flow,  its  singing  sweetness,  and  the  numberless  fancies  with 
which  it  sparkles,  is  often  of  rare  merit.  Many  phrases  and  lines 
of  exquisite  delicacy  and  richness  might  be  caught  at  random  in 
carelessly  reading  one  of  his  poems.  "Low-talking  leaves," 
"dim  eyes  sliding  into  rest,"  "heaped  with  strength,"  "the 
vrti<i  smote  crushingly,"  are  examples.     The  following  is  fine :  — 

"  Far  away 

Appeared  the  streaky  fingers  of  the  dawn  ;  " 

and  this  line  : — 

"  The  peevish  winds  ran  cutting  o'er  the  sea ;  " 

and  this: — 

"  The  least  noise  smote  her  like  a  sudden  wound." 

The  following  lines  convey  an  image  of  a  different  kind : — 

"  A  ghastly  castle,  that  eternally 
Holds  lis  blind  visage  out  to  the  lone  sea." 

Here  is  a  condensed  and  splendid  description : — 

"  Giovanni  pressed,  and  pushed,  and  shifted  aim, 
And  played  his  weapon  like  a  tongue  of  flame." 

In  the  "  Feast  of  the  Poets,"  the  most  delightful,  fanciful, 
witty  and  impudent,  of  Hunt's  poems,  there  are  numerous  passages 
worthy  of  being  garnered  in  the  memory.  The  judgments  of 
Hunt's  Apollo  are  not  always  correct,  but  they  have  the  advantage 
in  sprightliness  over  most  criticisms.  At  times  we  are  reminded, 
in  the  style,  of  the  "  polished  want  of  polish  "  of  Sir  John  Suck- 
ling. The  following  description  of  Phoebus  has  a  mingled  richness 
and  raciness  to  which  none  can  be  insensible  :  — 

"  Imagine,  however,  if  shape  there  must  be, 
A  figure  sublimed  above  mortal  degree. 
His  limbs  tlie  perfecllon  of  elegant  strength  — 
A  fine  flowing  roundness  inclining  to  length  — 
O  Aback  dropping  in — an  expansion  of  chest, 

(For  the  god,  you  '11  observe,  like  his  statues  waa  dreat  » 

/OL.  n.  25 


386  APPENDIX. 

His  throat  like  a  pillar  for  smoothness  and  grace, 

His  curls  in  a  cluster  —  and  tlien  such  a  face, 

As  marked  him  at  once  the  true  offspring  of  Jove, 

The  brow  all  of  wisdom,  the  lips  all  of  love  ; 

For  though  he  was  blooming,  and  oval  of  cheek, 

And  youth  down  his  shoulders  went  smoothing  and  slenk, 

Yet  his  look  with  the  reach  of  past  ages  was  wise. 

And  the  soul  of  eternity  thought  through  his  eyes." 

The  satire  in  this  "  Feast,"  on  some  of  the  poets  and  dramatisvs 
of  the  period,  is  often  very  felicitous.  After  mentioning  a  number 
of  scribblers,  who  called  upon  Apollo,  he  fleers  at  two  of  them  in  a 
couplet  of  much  point :  — 

"And  mighty  dull  Cobb,  lumbering  just  like  a  bear  up. 
And  sweet  Billy  Dimond,  a  patting  his  hair  up." 

He  accounts  for  the  absence  of  Colman  and  Sheridan,  by  remarking 
that  "  one  was  in  prison,  and  both  were  in  liquor."  The  following 
s  a  good  fling  at  Giffbrd  :  — 

"  A  hem  was  then  heard  consequential  and  snapping. 
And  a  sour  little  gentleman  walked  with  a  rap  in." 

Dr.  Wolcott  lias  a  hard  rap  given  to  him  in  a  very  characteristic 
couplet :  — 

"  And  old  Peter  Pindar  turned  pale,  and  suppressed. 
With  a  death-bed  sensation,  a  blasphemous  jest." 

The  following  lines  contain  a  magnificent  description  of  the  god  <tf 
the  lyre,  in  all  the  glory  of  his  divinity  :  — 

"  He  said  ;  and  the  place  all  seemed  swelling  with  light. 
While  his  locks  and  his  visage  grew  awfully  bright ; 
And  clouds,  burning  inward,  rolled  round  on  each  side, 
To  encircle  his  state,  as  he  stood  in  his  pride ; 
Till  at  last  the  full  deity  put  on  his  rays, 
And  burst  on  the  sight  in  the  pomp  of  his  blaze! 
Then  a  glory  beamed  round,  as  of  fiery  rods, 
With  the  sound  of  deep  organs  and  chorister  gods ; 
And  the  faces  of  bards,  glowing  fresh  from  their  skies, 
Came  thronging  about  with  inlenlness  of  eyes  — 
And  the  Nine  were  all  heard,  as  tlie  harmony  swelled  — 
And  the  spheres,  pealing  in,  the  long  rapture  upheld  — 
And  all  things  above,  and  beneath,  and  around, 
Seemed  a  woi'd  of  bright  vision,  set  floating  in  sound.'-' 


THOMAS    CARLYLE    AS    A    POLITICIAN.  387 

These  passages  must  be  allowed  to  display  wit,  fancy  and  senti- 
ment,  even  by  the  haters  of  Hunt.  Indeed,  there  is  a  charm  in 
his  grace  of  expression,  and  often  in  his  light  impertinence  and 
flippant  egotism,  Avhich  no  criticism  can  destroy.  There  is  every 
reason  to  suppose  that  hin  poems  will  long  survive  the  life  of  their 
author,  and  the  reputation  of  the  majority  of  his  assailants. 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  AS  A  POLITICIAJN. 

It  would  doubtless  be  unjust  to  deny  Carlyle's  claim  to  be  con- 
sidered a  thinker  on  practicaJ  subjects ;  but  he  is  an  intense  rather 
than  a  calm  and  comprehensive  one.  A  comprehensive  thinker 
looks  at  everything,  not  singly,  but  in  its  relations;  an  intense 
thinker  seizes  hold  of  some  particular  thing,  exaggerates  it  out  of 
its  proper  place  in  the  economy  of  the  world,  and  looks  at  every- 
thing in  its  relation  to  his  own  hobby.  In  reasoning  on  the  evils 
of  society  and  government,  there  is  nothing  so  unphilosophical  as 
to  growl  or  snarl.  If  a  man  cannot  look  an  evil  in  the  face  with- 
out rushing  into  rage  at  its  prevalence,  and  considering  that  evil 
as  the  root  of  all  others,  he  will  do  little  for  reform.  Indeed, 
Carlyle  appears  to  us  to  find  delight  in  getting  the  world  into  a 
corner.  Nothing  pleases  him  more  than  to  shoot  a  sarcasm  al 
statesmen  and  philanthropists  who  are  grappling  practically  with 
some  abuse;  in  this  way  warning  everybody  to  avoid  particular 
medicines,  and  come  to  him  for  a  universal  panacea.  Thus  his 
works  on  social  evils  are  substantially  little  more  than  savage  jests 
at  the  depravity  of  mankind,  and  contemptuous  fleers  at  those  who 
are  attempting  to  mitigate  it.  It  is  needless  to  remark  that  he  is 
not  always  consistent;  but  this  is  the  general  character  of  his 
political  writings  He  criticizes  human  life  as  he  would  a  play  or 
a  novel,  and  looks  to  his  own  taste  alone  in  passing  his  judgments. 

In  "  Past  and  Present,"  and  "Chartism,"  Carlyle  states  his 
views  regarding  the  source  and  character  of  the  evils  afflicting  the 
British  nation,  and  the  means  by  which  they  may  be  mitigated  and 
removed.  "  Past  and  Present ' '  is  the  most  splendidly  written  and 
I'.arefully  meditated  of  the  two.     It  contains  many  sentences  of 


388  APPENDIX. 

remarkable  force  and  beauty,  with  numerous  touches  of  that  sly 
savage  humor  peculiar  to  the  author.  The  tone  of  the  work,  how- 
ever, is  one  of  perfect  discoutsnt.  Tlie  style  bristles  with  Carlyle's 
usual  extravagance  about  society  and  government,  declaring  both 
to  be  shams  and  unveracities,  and  sneering  at  all  plans  for  improve- 
ment which  the  ingenuity  or  benevolence  of  others  has  framed, 
If  we  understand  Carlyle  aright,  he  considers  that  the  constita- 
tional  government  of  England  is  a  humbug;  that  AVilliam  the 
Conqueror  and  Oliver  Cromwell  were  the  best  governors  that 
England  has  ever  had;  that  since  Cromwell's  time  the  country  has 
been  governed  bj  Sir  Jabesh  Windbag,  strong  in  no  faith  but  that 
"  paragraphs  and  plausibilities  will  bring  votes;"  and  that  every- 
body is  a  fool  or  a  flunkey  except  Thomas  Carlyle.  He  hates  every, 
form  of  government  which  it  is  possible  to  establish  in  this  world 
—  democracy  among  the  rest.  If  his  work  may  be  said  to  have 
any  practical  bearing  on  politics,  it  is  this  —  that  a  governor  is 
wanted  with  force  enough  to  assume  arbitrary  power,  and  exercise 
it  according  to  the  dreams  of  mystics  and  sentimentalists.  His 
system  is  a  compound  of  anarchy  and  despotism.  His  ideal  gov- 
ernor is  a  man  blessed  with  an  incapacity  or  indisposition  to  explain 
himself,  who  rises  up  some  day  and  cries  —  "  The  government  of 
this  country  is  a  lie,  the  people  cannot  make  it  a  reality,  but  I  can 
and  will."  His  notion  of  the  wretched  condition  of  society  is  dis- 
heartening enough.  Man,  he  tells  us,  has  lost  all  the  soul  out  of 
him.  "This  is  verily  the  plague-spot  —  centre  of  the  universal 
social  gangrene,  threatening  all  modern  things  with  frightful  death. 
You  touch  the  focal  centre  of  all  our  disease,  of  our  frightful 
nosology  of  diseases,  when  you  lay  your  hand  on  this.  There  is  no 
religion;  there  is  no  God;  man  has  lost  his  soul,  and  vainly  seeks 
antiseptic  salt.  Vainly ;  in  killing  kings,  in  passing  Reform  Bills, 
in  French  Revolutions,  Manchester  Insurrections,  is  found  no 
•eraedy.  The  foul  elephantine  leprosy  reappears  in  new  force  and 
despei-ateness  ne^t  hour."  Sad  condition  of  poor  depraved  hu- 
manity !  A  whole  generation,  except  one  man,  withoat  souls,  and 
thiit  one  exception  without  his  senses  !  It  is  curious  to  notice  the 
illusions  of  an  understanding  so  powerful,  when  governed  by  a 
sensibility  so  tempestuous.  It  would  be  unjust,  however,  to  ques- 
tion the  depth  of  many  detached  thoughts,  and  truth  of  some  of 
the  speculations,  in  thii  volume. 


THOBIAS    CARLYLE    AS    A    POLITICIAN.  3S9 

It  would  be  useless  to  deny  that  Carlyle's  work  on  Cromwell  is 
Bne  of  great  merit;  tliat  it  places  many  equivocal  acts  of  Cromwell 
in  a  truer  liglit  than  that  iu  which  they  have  formerly  been  viewed, 
—  that  there  is  an  attempt  to  represent  tlie  subject  dramatically 
from  the  heart  of  tlie  man  —  and  that  the  whole  representation 
hlazes  witli  that  stern,  rough,  intense,  and  fiery  eloquence,  which 
flames  thi'ough  the  other  writings  of  the  author  ;  —  but  still  no 
reader,  with  a  grain  of  moral  sense,  or  common  sense,  can  fail  to 
see  that  Carlyle's  zeal  for  Cromwel'  has  completely  blinded  him  to 
all  the  bad  qualities  of  his  character;  and  that,  in  the  remarks  on 
the  Irish  war,  at  least,  he  has  compromised  every  principle  of 
morals,  and  every  instinct  of  humanity,  in  his  eagerness  to  make 
out  a  case  for  his  hero.  In  his  contempt  for  what  he  is  pleased  to 
call  the  "rose-colored"  sentimentality  of  those  who  love  peace, 
and  shrink  with  horror  from  rapine  and  murder,  he  hardly  seems 
aware  that,  under  the  influence  of  a  morbid  sentimentality  of 
another  kind,  he  himself  has  come  forward  to  whitewash  Oliver 
Cromwell.  We  may  judge  of  his  love  for  his  subject,  by  his 
willingness  to  sacrifice  justice,  mercy  and  truth  to  it.  In  his 
justification  of  Cromwell's  wholesale  massacres  in  Ireland  —  in 
echoing  the  bigoted  or  crafty  religious  phrases  under  which  Crom- 
well himself  veiled  their  enormity — in  that  perversion  of  sympathy 
by  which  he  would  try  to  make  us  honor,  not  the  heroic  men  who 
fought  for  their  cause  against  hope,  but  their  cold-blooded  mur- 
derer— and,  finally,  for  attempting  to  give  the  sanction  of  religion 
to  the  whole — Carlyle  appears  as  a  sort  of  compound  historian, 
made  up  of  Machiavelli,  Sir  Harry  Vane,  Jack  Ketch  and  Mr. 
Squeers.  It  would  be  just  as  easy  to  defend  the  master  of  "  Dothe- 
boys  Hall,"  and  make  him  out  a  pliilanthropist,  as  to  give  any 
character  of  religion  or  mercy  to  Cromwell's  cruelties  in  Ireland. 
Besides,  the  great  Protector  needs  none  of  this  puSing.  His  fame, 
dtained  as  it  is  with  some  crimes,  is  as  clear  as  that  of  many  other 
great  men  of  action.  But  the  mode  pursued  by  Carlyle  would 
make  history  and  biography  more  immoral  and  detestable  than  the 
most  licentious  fictions.  It  would  canonize  all  guilt  Avhich  has 
been  accompanied  by  energy;  it  would  hold  up  bigotry,  tyranny, 
hypocrisy,  murder,  as  things  noble  and  gi'eat;  it  would  make 
Hampden  and  Washington  give  way  to  Dantjn  and  Mirabeaa. 
^esidis,  it  destroys  all  discrimination  in  judging  character,  and 


390  APPENDIX 

daubs  vices  with  the  same  eulogy  it  occasionally  vouchsafes  to  vir- 
tues. The  thing  would  appear  ridiculous  in  any  other  mode  of 
representation  *han  that  adopted  by  Carlyle,  but  he  possesses  a 
siagular  power  in  corrupting  the  moral  sense  through  aj^peals  to 
the  senses  and  the  imagination,  and  in  making  the  reader  ashamed 
of  the  axioms  of  morals  and  religion,  by  stigmatizing  those  who 
abide  by  them  as  superficial,  incapable,  and  deficient  in  insight. 

The  English  Revolution  of  1640  began  in  a  defence  of  legal  priv- 
ileges, and  ended  in  a  nnlitary  despotism.  It  commenced  in  with- 
standing attacks  on  civil  and  religious  rights,  and  ended  in  the 
dominion  of  a  sect.  The  i^oint,  therefore,  where  the  lover  of  free- 
dom should  cease  to  sympathize  with  it  is  plain.  It  is  useless  for 
the  republican  to  say  that  every  revolution  of  the  kind  must  neces- 
sarily take  a  similar  course,  for  that  is  not  an  argument  for  Crom- 
well's usurpation,  but  an  argument  against  the  expediency  of 
opposing  a  king's  assaults  on  the  rights  and  privileges  of  the  peo- 
ple. The  truth  is  that  the  English  Revolution  was  at  first  a 
popular  movement,  having  a  clear  majority  of  the  property,  intel- 
ligence, and  numbers,  of  the  nation  on  its  side.  The  king,  in 
breaking  the  fundamental  laws  of  the  kingdom,  made  war  on  the 
community,  and  was  to  be  resisted  just  as  much  as  though  he  had 
been  king  of  France  or  Spain,  and  had  invaded  the  country.  It 
is  easy  to  trace  the  progress  of  this  resistance,  until,  by  the  action 
of  religious  bigotry  and  other  inflaming  passions,  the  powers  of 
the  opposition  became  concentrated  in  the  hands  of  a  body  of  mil- 
itary fanatics,  commanded  by  an  imperious  soldier,  and  represent- 
ing a  small  minority  even  of  the  Puritans.  The  king,  weak  and 
vacillating,  made  an  attempt  to  establish  arbitrary  power,  was 
resisted,  and  after  years  of  civil  war,  ended  his  days  on  the  scaf- 
fold. Cromwell,  Avithout  any  of  those  palliations  which  charity 
might  urge  in  extenuation  of  the  king  on  the  ground  of  the  i^rej- 
udices  of  his  station,  took  advantage  of  the  weakness  of  the 
country,  after  it  had  been  torn  by  civil  war,  usurped  supreme 
power,  and  became  the  most  arbitrary  monarch  England  had  seen 
since  William  the  Conqueror.  No  one  doubts  his  genius,  and  it 
Beems  strange  that  any  one  should  doubt  his  despotic  character. 
This,  however,  is  growing  into  fashion,  even  among  sturdy  demo- 
crats and  republicans. 

The  truth  is,  that  Cromwell's  natural  character,  even  on  th« 


THOMAS    CARLYLE    AS   A    POLITICIAN  1391 

hypothesis  of  his  sincerity,  was  arbitrary,  and  the  very  opposite 
of  the  character  of  a  champion  of  freedom.  It  seems  to  us 
supremely  ridiculous  to  talk  of  such  a  man  as  beuig  cajiable  of 
having  his  conduct  determmed  by  a  parliament  or  a  council.  He 
pretended  to  look  to  God,  not  to  human  laws  or  fallible  men,  for 
the  dii-ection  of  his  actions.  In  the  name  of  the  Deity  he  charged 
at  the  head  of  his  Ironsides.  In  the  name  of  the  Deity  he  mas- 
sacred the  Irish  garrisons.  In  the  name  of  the  Deity  he  sent 
dragoons  to  overtm-n  parliaments.  He  believed  neither  in  the 
sovereignty  of  the  people  nor  the  sovereignty  of  the  laws;  and  it 
made  little  difference  whether  his  opponent  was  Charles  I.  or  Sir 
Harry  Vane,  provided  he  wei-e  an  opponent.  In  regard  to  the 
inmost  essence  of  tyranny,  that  of  exalting  the  individual  will  over 
everything  else,  and  of  meeting  opposition  and  obstacles  by  pure 
fbi'ce,  Charles  I.  was  a  weakling  in  comparison  with  Cromwell. 
Now,  if,  in  respect  to  human  governments,  democracy  and  repub- 
licanism consist  in  allowing  any  great  and  strong  man  to  assume 
the  supreme  power,  on  his  simple  assertion  that  he  has  a  commis- 
sion from  Heaven  so  to  do,  —  if  constitutional  liberty  is  a  govern- 
ment of  will  instead  of  a  government  of  laws,  — then  the  partisans 
of  Cromwell  are  justiiied  in  then-  eulogies.  It  appears  to  us  that 
the  only  ground  on  which  the  Protector's  tyranny  can  be  consid- 
ered more  endurable  than  the  king's,  consists  in  the  fact  that  from 
its  nature  it  could  not  be  pei'manent,  and  could  not  establish  itself 
into  the  dignity  of  a  precedent.  It  was  a  power  depending  neither 
on  the  assent  of  the  people,  nor  on  laws  and  institutions,  but  sim- 
ply on  the  character  of  one  man.  As  far  as  it  went,  it  did  no 
good  in  any  way  to  the  cause  of  freedom;  for  to  Cromwell's  gov- 
ernment, and  to  the  ftmaticism  which  preceded  it,  we  owe  the 
reaction  of  Charles  tlie  Second's  reign,  when  licentiousness  in  man- 
ners, and  servility  in  politics,  succeeded  in  making  virtue  and 
freedom  synonymous  with  hypocrisy  and  cant. 

In  regard  to  Cromwell's  massacres  in  Ireland,  he  simply  acted 
as  Cortes  did  in  Mexico,  and  Pizarro  in  Peru,  and  deserves  no 
more  charity.  If  he  performed  his  barbarities  from  policy,  as 
Carlyle  intimates,  he  must  be  considered  a  disciple  of  Machiavelli 
ind  the  Devil ;  if  he  performed  them  from  religious  bigotry,  he 
iuay  rank  with  St.  Dominic  and  Charles  the  Ninth.  We  are  sick  of 
hearing  brutality  and  wickedness,  either  in  Puritan  or  Catholic 


^92  APPENDIX. 

extenuated  on  the  ground  of  bigotry.  The  bigotry  whi  th  prompts 
inhuman  deeds  is  not  an  excuse  for  sin,  but  the  greatest  of  spirit 
ual  sins.  It  indicates  a  condition  of  mind  in  which  the  individual 
deifies  his  malignant  passions. 

The  style  of  the  book  on  Cromwell  is  occasionally  a  trial  even 
to  the  lovers  of  Carlyle's  picturesque  and  shaggy  diction,  and  few 
men  can  pronounce  some  of  the  sentences  aloud  without  running 
the  risk  of  beicg  throttled.  To  follo>v  the  course  of  his  thought 
through  the  sudden  turns  and  down  the  abrupt  decliTOies  of  hia 
style,  exposes  one  at  times  to  the  danger  of  having  his  eyes  put  out 
of  joint.  Carlyle  is  said  to  have  copied  his  style  from  Jean  Paul; 
but  we  should  think  he  had  copied  it  rather  from  Swiss  scenery. 
Of  all  English  styles,  it  reminds  us  most  of  the  terrible  alexan- 
drines of  old  George  Chapman's  Homer,  whose  words  we  are 
sometimes  compelled  to  dodge,  as  though  they  were  missiles  hurled 
at  us  by  the  gigantic  combatants  they  so  graphically  describe. 
Carlyle,  indeed,  sometimes  speaks  as  Ajax  spoke,  who,  when 
enraged,  according  to  Chapman,  "  throated  his  threats."  His 
style  is  a  faithful  symbol  of  his  powerful  but  perverse  nature,  in 
all  the  inconsistency  of  its  formal  contempt  of  formulas  and  cant- 
ing hatred  of  cant. 


NOVELS   OF   THE   SEASON.* 

There  was  a  time  when  the  appearance  of  a  clever  novel  would 
iustify  its  separate  examination  in  a  reviev/,  and  a  nice  discussion 
of  the  claims  of  its  Mr.  Herbert  or  Lady  Jane  to  be  enrolled  among 
men  and  women.  But  in  this  age  of  ready  writers,  romances 
must  be  reviewed  in  battalions,  or  allowed  to  pass  unchallenged. 
Every  week  beholds  a  new  irruption  of  emigrants  into  the  sunny 
land  of  fiction,  sadly  disturbing  the  old  balance  of  power,  and 
introducing  a  fearful  confusion  of  names  and  habits.  Within  a 
few  years,  all  the  proprieties  of  the  domain  have  been  violated  by 
the  intrusion  of  hordes  of  ruffians,  pickpockets,  and  vagabonds 
Sir  Charles  Grandison  finds  himself  face  to  face  with  Jack  Shep- 

*Jane  Eyre,  Wulhering  Heights.  The  Tenant  of  Wildfell  tlall,  Hawkatona 
Bachelor  cf  the  Albany,  Harold,  (Jranlley  Manor,  Vanity  I'air. 


NOVELS    OF    THE    SLASON.  393 

pard,  and  no  scorn  sparlding  in  the  eyes  of  Di  Vernon  can  abash 
the  impudence  of  Mr.  Richard  Turpin.  The  swagger  of  vulgar 
villany,  the  lisp  of  genteel  imbecility,  and  the  free  and  easy  man- 
ner of  tapping,  are  noAv  quite  the  rage  in  the  Elysian  fields  of 
romance.  Another  evil  is  the  comparative  absence  of  individual- 
ities, amid  all  the  increase  of  population.  Opinions  have  nearly 
supplanted  characters.  We  look  for  men,  and  discern  propositions; 
for  -women,  and  are  favored  with  woman's  rights.  Theologians, 
metaphysicians,  politicians,  reformers,  philanthi-opists,  prophets 
of  the  general  overturn  and  the  good  time  coming,  the  march-of- 
intellect  boys  in  a  solid  phalanx,  have  nearly  pushed  the  novelist 
aside.  The  dear  old  nonsense  which  has  delighted  the  heart  for  so 
many  centuries  is  so  mixed  up  with  nonsense  of  another  kind,  that 
it  cannot  be  recognized  either  in  dra^ving-room  or  kitchen.  The 
sacred  flame,  it  is  true,  still  burns  in  some  sixpenny  or  ninepenny 
novelettes,  the  horror  of  the  polite  and  the  last  hope  of  the  senti- 
mental; but  it  burns  in  a  battered  copper  lamp,  and  it  burna 
among  ruhis. 

Accordingly,  in  the  novels  whose  titles  grace  the  head  of  the 
present  article,  our  readei'S  must  not  expect  to  find,  in  its  full  per- 
fection, that  peculiar  aspect  of  human  weakness  of  which  the  nov- 
elist is  the  legitimate  exponent.  They  must  be  content  with  a 
repast  of  matters  and  things  in  general,  among  which  may  be 
named  some  good  philosophy,  several  dishes  of  controversial  theol- 
ogy, much  spicy  satire,  a  little  passable  morality,  a  little  imperti- 
nent immorality,  and  a  good  deal  of  the  philosophy  of  history  and 
the  science  of  the  afi'ections. 

The  first  three  novels  on  our  list  are  those  which  have  proceeded 
from  the  firm  of  Bell  &  Co.  Not  many  months  ago,  the  New  Eng- 
land States  were  visited  by  a  distressing  mental  ei)idemic,  passing 
under  the  name  of  the  "  Jane  Eyre  fever,"  which  defied  all  the 
usual  nostrums  of  the  established  doctors  of  criticism.  Its  effects 
raried  with  different  constitutions,  —  in  some  producing  a  soft 
(.ithical  sentimentality,  which  relaxed  all  the  fibres  of  conscience, 
and  in  others  exciting  a  general  fever  of  moral  and  religious 
indignation.  It  was  to  no  purpose  that  the  public  were  solemnly 
assured,  through  the  intelligent  press,  that  the  malady  was  not 
likely  to  have  any  permanent  effect  either  on  the  intehectual  or 
moral  constitution.     The  book  which  caused  the  distemper  would 


394 


APPENDIX. 


probably  have  been  inoffensive,  had  not  some  sly  manufadurer  of 
mischief  hinted  that  it  was  a  volume  which  no  respectable  man 
should  bring  into  his  family  circle.  Of  course,  every  family  soon 
had  a  copy  of  it,  and  one  edition  after  another  found  eager  pur- 
chasers. The  hero,  Mr.  Rochester,  (not  the  same  person  who 
comes  to  so  edifying  an  end  in  the  pages  of  Dr.  Gilbert  Buriiet,') 
became  a  great  favorite  in  the  boarding-schools,  and  in  the  wor 
shipful  society  of  governesses.  That  portion  of  Young  America 
known  as  ladies'  men  began  to  swagger  and  swear  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  gentler  sex,  and  to  allude  darkly  to  events  in  their 
lives  which  excused  impudence  and  profanity.  Accordingly, 
while  one  portion  of  the  community  was  clamoring  for  the  reap- 
pearance of  the  principles  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers,  another  was 
vociferating  impotent  Bj'ronics  against  conventional  morality. 

While  fathers  and  mothers  were  in  a  state  of  inconceivable 
agony  at  this  strange  conduct  of  their  innocents,  and  with  a  pai*- 
donable  despair  were  looking  for  the  dissolution  of  all  the  bonds  of 
Bociety,  the  publishers  of  Jane  Eyre  announced  Wuthering  Heights, 
by  the  same  author.  When  it  came,  it  was  purchased  and  read 
with  universal  eagerness;  but,  alas  !  it  created  disappointment 
almost  as  universal.  It  was  a  panacea  for  all  the  suiferers  under 
the  epidemic.  Society  returned  to  its  old  condition ;  parents  were 
blessed  in  hearing  once  more  their  children  talk  common  sense, 
and  rakes  and  battered  profligates  of  high  and  low  degree  fell 
instantly  to  their  proper  level.  Thus  ended  the  last  desperate 
attempt  to  corrupt  the  virtue  of  the  sturdy  descendants  of  the 
Puritans. 

The  novel  of  Jane  Eyre,  which  caused  this  great  excitement, 
purports  to  be  edited  by  Currer  Bell,  and  the  said  Currer  divides 
the  authorship,  if  we  are  not  misinformed,  with  a  brother  and 
sister.  The  work  bears  the  marks  of  more  than  one  mind  and  one 
Bex,  and  has  more  variety  than  either  of  the  novels  which 
acknowledge  the  paternity  of  Acton  Bell.  The  family  mind  is 
strikingly  jDCCuliar,  giving  a  strong  impression  of  unity;  but  it  is 
still  male  and  female.  From  the  masculine  tone  of  Jane  Eyre,  it 
might  pass  altogether  as  the  composition  of  a  man,  were  it  not  for 
Bome  unconscious  feminine  peculiarities,  which  the  strongest 
minded  woman  that  ever  aspu-ed  after  manhood  cannot  suppress 
lliese  peculiarities  refer   not  only  to  elaborate  deajriptions  o. 


NOVELS    OF    THE    SEASON. 


395 


di-ess,  anci  the  minutise  of  the  sick-chamber,  but  to  varioos  super- 
ficial refinemeuts  of  feeling  in  regard  to  the  external  relations  of  the 
sex.  It  is  true  that  the  noblest  and  best  representations  of  female 
character  have  been  produced  by  men,  but  then;  are  riceties  of 
thought  and  emotion  in  a  ■woman's  mind  which  no  man  can  delin- 
eate, and  whi>.>i  only  escape  unawares  from  a  female  writer. 
There  are  numerous  examples  of  these  in  Jane  Eyre.  The  lead- 
ing characteristic  of  the  novel,  however,  and  the  secret  of  its 
charm,  is  the  clear,  distinct,  decisive  style  of  its  representation  of 
character,  manners,  and  S'enery;  and  this  continually  suggests  a 
male  mind.  In  the  earlier  chapters  there  is  little,  perhaps,  to  break 
the  impression  that  we  are  reading  the  autoliiography  of  a  bold, 
powerful  and  peculiar  female  intellect;  but  when  the  admirable 
Mr.  Rochester  appears,  and  the  profanity,  brutality,  and  slang  of 
the  misanthropic  profligate  give  their  torpedo  shocks  to  the  nervous 
system,  —  and  especially  when  we  are  iavored  with  more  than  one 
scene  given  to  the  exhibition  of  mere  animal  appetite,  and  to 
courtship  after  the  manner  of  kangaroos  and  the  heroes  of  Dryden's 
plays, — we  are  gallant  enough  to  detect  the  hand  of  a  gentleman 
in  the  composition.  There  are  also  some  scenes  of  passion,  so  hot, 
emphatic,  and  condensed  in  expression,  and  so  sternly  masculine 
in  feeling,  that  we  are  almost  sure  we  observe  the  mind  of  the 
author  of  Wuthering  Heights  at  work  in  the  text. 

The  popularity  of  Jane  Eyi'e  was  doubtless  due  to  the  freshness, 
raciness,  and  vigor  of  mind,  it  evinced;  but  it  was  obtained  not  so 
much  by  these  qualities  as  by  its  frequent  dealings  in  moral  para- 
dox, and  the  hardihood  of  its  assaults  upon  the  prejudices  of  proper 
people.  Nothing  causes  more  delight,  to  at  least  one  third  of  every 
community,  than  a  successful  attempt  to  wound  the  delicacy  of 
their  scrupulous  neighbors,  and  a  daring  peep  into  regions  which 
wknowledge  the  authority  of  no  conventional  rules.  The  authors 
of  Jane  Eyre  have  not  accomplished  this  end  without  an  occasional 
violation  of  probability,  and  considerable  confusion  of  plot  and 
character ;  and  tliey  have  made  the  capital  mistake  of  supposing 
that  an  artistic  representation  of  character  and  manners  is  a  literal 
imitation  of  individual  life.  The  consequence  is,  that  in  dealing 
with  vicious  personages  they  confound  vulgarity  with  truth,  and 
awaken  too  often  a  feeling  of  disgust.  The  writer  who  dolors  too 
trarmly  the  scenes  through  which  his  immaculate  hero  passes  i? 


396  APPENDIX. 

rightly  held  as  an  equivocal  teacher  of  purity ;  and  it  is  not  hy  the 
bold  expi'ession  of  blasphemy  and  ribaldry  that  a  great  novelist 
conveys  the  most  truthful  idea  of  the  misanthropic  and  the  disso- 
lute. The  truth  is,  that  the  whole  fii-m  of  Bell  &  Co.  seem  to  have 
a  sense  of  the  depravity  of  human  nature  peculiarly  their  own.  It 
is  the  yahoo,  not  the  demon,  that  they  select  for  representation ; 
their  Pandem  uiium  is  of  mud  rather  than  fire. 

This  is  especJai'.y  the  case  with  Acton  Bell,  the  author  of  Wuth- 
ering  Heights,  The  Tenant  of  Wildfell  Hall,  and,  if  we  mistake  not, 
of  certain  offensive  but  powerful  portions  of  Jane  Eyre.  Acton, 
when  left  altogether  to  his  own  imaginations,  seems  to  take  a 
morose  satisfaction  in  developing  a  full  and  comjjlete  science  of 
human  brutality.  In  AVuthering  Heights  he  has  succeeded  in 
reaching  the  summit  of  this  laudable  ambition.  He  appears  to 
think  that  spiritual  wickedness  is  a  combination  of  animal  feroci- 
ties, and  has  accordingly  made  a  compendium  of  the  most  striking 
qualities  of  tiger,  wolf,  cur,  and  wild-cat,  in  the  hope  of  framing 
out  of  such  elements  a  suitable  brute-demon  to  serve  as  the  hero  of 
his  novel.  Compared  with  Heathcote,  Squeers  is  considerate  and 
Quilp  humane.  He  is  a  deformed  monster,  whom  tlie  Mephisto- 
pheles  of  Goethe  would  disdain  to  acknowledge,  whom  the  Satan  of 
Milton  would  consider  as  an  object  of  sunple  disgust,  and  to  whom 
Dante  would  hesitate  in  awai'ding  the  honor  of  a  place  among  tliose 
wliom  he  has  consigned  to  the  burning  pitch.  This  epitome  of 
brutality,  disavowed  by  man  and  devil,  Mr.  Acton  Bell  attempts 
in  two  whole  volumes  to  delineate ,  and  certainly  he  is  to  be  con- 
gratulated on  his  success.  As  he  is  a  man  of  uncommon  talents,  it 
is  needless  to  say  that  it  is  to  his  subject  and  his  dogged  manner 
of  handling  it,  that  we  are  to  refer  the  shriek  of  dislike  with  which 
the  novel  was  received.  His  mode  of  delineating  a  bad  character 
is  to  narrate  every  offensive  act  and  repeat  every  vile  expression 
which  are  characteristic.  Hence,  in  Wuthering  Heights,  he  details 
all  the  ingenuities  of  animal  malignity,  and  exhausts  the  whole 
rhetoric  of  stupid  blasphemy,  in  order  that  there  may  be  no  mis- 
take as  to  the  kind  of  person  he  intends  to  hold  up  to  the  popular 
gaze.  Like  all  spendthrifts  of  malice  and  profanity,  however,  he 
overdoes  the  business.  Though  he  scatters  oaths  as  plentifully  as 
lentimental  writers  do  intoi'jections,  the  comparative  parsimony 
»f  great  novelists  in  this  respect  is  productivi  of  infinitely  mora 


NOVELS    OF    THE    SEASON.  39"/ 

iflFect.  It  must  be  confessed  that  this  coarseness,  though  the 
prominent,  is  not  the  only  characteristic  of  the  writer.  His  attempt 
iit  originality  does  not  stop  with  the  conception  of  Heathcote,  b\xt 
lie  aims  further  to  exliibit  the  action  of  the  sentiment  of  love  on  the 
nature  of  the  eqmvocal  being  whom  his  morbid  imagination  has 
created.  This  is  by  far  the  ablest  and  most  subtile  portion  of  his 
labors,  and  indicates  +hat  strong  hold  upon  the  elements  of  char- 
acter, and  that  decision  of  touch  in  the  delineation  of  the  most 
evanescent  qualities  of  emotion,  which  distinguish  the  mind  of  the 
whole  family.  For  all  practical  purposes,  however,  the  power 
evinced  in  Wuthering  Heights  is  power  thrown  away.  Nightmares, 
and  dreams  through  which  devils  dance  and  wolves  howl,  make 
bad  novels. 

The  Tenant  of  Wildfell  Hall  is  altogether  a  less  unpleasing  story 
than  its  immediate  predecessor,  though  it  resembles  it  in  the  excess- 
ive clumsiness  with  which  the  story  is  arranged,  and  the  promi- 
/lence  given  to  the  brutal  element  of  human  nature.  The  work 
seems  a  convincing  proof  that  there  is  nothing  kindly  or  genial  in 
the  author's  powerful  mind,  and  that,  if  he  continues  to  write 
novels,  he  will  introduce  into  the  land  of  romance  a  larger  number 
of  hateful  men  and  women  than  any  other  writer  of  the  day. 
Gilbert,  the  hero,  seems  to  be  a  favorite  with  the  author,  and  to  be 
intended  as  a  specimen  of  manly  character;  but  he  would  serve  as 
the  ruffian  of  any  other  novelist.  His  nature  is  fierce,  proud, 
moody,  jealous,  revengeful,  and  sometimes  brutal.  We  can  see 
nothing  good  iu  him  except  a  certain  rude  honesty,  and  that 
quality  is  chiefly  seen  in  his  bursts  of  hatred,  and  his  insults  to 
women.  Helen,  the  heroine,  is  doubtless  a  strong-minded  woman, 
and  passes  bravely  through  a  great  deal  of  suifering;  but  if  there 
be  any  lovable  or  feminine  virtues  in  her  composition,  the  author  has 
managed  to  conceal  them.  She  marries  a  profligate,  thinking  to 
reform  him;  but  the  gentleman,  with  a  full  knowledge  other  pur-- 
pose,  declines  reformation,  goes  deeper  and  deeper  into  vice,  and 
becomes  at  last  as  fiendlike  as  a  very  limited  stock  of  brains  will 
allow.  This  is  a  reversal  of  the  process  carried  on  in  Jane  Eyre ; 
but  it  must  be  admitted  tha.o  the  profligate  in  The  Tenant  of  Wild 
fell  Hall  is  no  Rochester.  He  is  never  virtuously  inclined,  except 
in  those  periods  of  iL'ness  and  feebleness  which  his  debaucherie* 
Vave  occasioned,  thus  illustrating  the  old  proverb, — 


398  APPENDIX. 

"When  the  devil  was  sick,  the  devil  a  monk  would  be; 
When  the  devil  was  well,  the  devil  a  monk  was  he." 

He  Jias  almost  constantly  by  him  a  choice  coterie  of  boon  compan- 
ions, rangijig  from  the  elegant  libertine  to  the  ferocious  sensualist, 
and  the  reader  is  favored  with  exact  accounts  of  their  drunken 
orgies,  and  with  numerous  scraps  of  their  profane  conversation. 
All  the  characters  are  drawn  with  great  power  and  precision  of 
outline,  and  the  scenes  are  as>  \'ivid  as  life  itself.  Everywhere  is 
seen  the  tendency  of  the  author  to  degrade  passion  into  appetite, 
and  to  give  prominence  to  the  selfish  and  malignant  elements  of 
human  nature;  but  while  he  succeeds  in  making  profligacy  dis- 
gusting, he  fails  in  making  virtue  pleasing.  His  depravity  is  total 
depravity,  and  his  hard  and  impudent  debauchees  seem  to  belong 
to  that  class  of  reprobates  whom  Dr.  South  considers  "  as  not  so 
much  born  as  damned  into  the  world."  The  reader  of  Acton  Bell 
gains  no  enlarged  view  of  mankind,  giving  a  healthy  action  to  his 
sympathies,  but  is  confined  to  a  narrow  space  of  life,  and  held 
down,  as  it  were,  by  main  force,  to  witness  the  wolfish  side  of  his 
nature  literally  and  logically  set  forth.  But  the  criminal  courts 
are  not  the  places  in  which  to  take  a  comprehensive  view  of  human- 
ity, and  the  novelist  who  confines  his  observation  to  them  is  not 
likely  to  produce  any  lasting  impression  except  of  horror  and 
disgust. 

The  next  work  on  our  list  is  Hawkstone.  Tliis  is  a  theological 
novel,  the  hero  of  which  is  a  knight-errant  of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land. Though  the  book  contains  many  powerful  and  some  pathetic 
scenes,  and  'is  wi'itten  with  considerable  force  and  beauty,  events 
are  made  so  subsidiary  to  doctrines,  that  it  can  hardly  claim  the 
dubious  honor  of  being  called  a  novel.  Its  authorship  is  ascribed 
to  Professor  Sewall,  of  Oxford,  a  learned  gentleman,  who  took  a 
prominent  part  in  the  disgraceful  scene  at  that  imiversity  on  the 
occasion  of  i^resenting  President  Everett  with  an  honorary  degree. 
From  his  connection  with  that  paltry  outburst  of  religious  and 
political  bigotry,  the  character  of  his  opinions  may  be  inferred 
He  looks  upon  the  world  through  a  pair  of  theological  spectacles, 
and  instead  of  seeing  things  as  they  are,  he  views  them  altogether 
in  relation  to  his  creed.  Were  he  a  fanatic,  we  might  excuse  his 
lliberality,  for  passion  is  some  extenuation  of  dogmatism ;  but  the 
Rifotry  of  our  author  is  of  that  cool,  smooth,  contemptuous,  self 


NOVELS  OF  THE  SEASON.  399 

Kktiefied  kind,  which  irritates  without  stimulating.  Assuming  to 
gpetik  by  the  authority  of  the  Church,  he  quietly  makes  his  own 
perceptions  the  limits  of  human  intelligence,  and  from  his  pinnacle 
of  self-content  judges  mankind.  His  whole  wisdom  consists  in 
opposing  the  world  as  it  is,  and  taking  the  exact  opposite  vieAV  of 
evevy  question  from  that  taken  by  liberal  men.  He  is  not  content 
with  stigmatizing  Chartists,  Radicals,  and  Whigs,  but  takes  every 
opportunity  to  inform  his  readers  what  poor  creatures  are  Sir 
Robert  Peel  and  the  Duke  of  Wellington.  It  is  difficult  to  say 
whether  he  most  dislikes  Papists  or  Dissenters,  but  we  should 
judge  there  was  more  rancor  in  his  representations  of  the  former 
than  the  latter.  To  be  sure,  the  sects  he  despises  may  have  the 
consolation  of  knowing  that  he  has  represented  his  own  church  in 
the  person  of  a  young  clergyman  whom  every  reader  must  con- 
sider an  impertinent  puppy ;  but  he  has  done  it  with  a  beautiful 
unconsciousness  of  the  fact. 

We  hardly  know  of  a  book  which  shows  a  greater  ignorance  of 
the  world,  or  more  intolerance  and  dogmatism  based  on  so  small  a 
foundation  of  common  sense.  If  the  writer  confined  himself  to 
theology,  and  contented  his  egotism  with  connecting  all  dissent 
from  his  own  dogmas  with  folly  or  sin,  he  might  be  allowed  to 
pass  with  a  herd  of  other  self-constituted  popes,  of  whom  Ranke 
makes  no  mention;  but  when  he  invades  every  department  of 
moral,  social,  and  political  science,  and  views  with  a  certain  pity- 
ing contempt  the  labors  of  great  and  good  men,  convicting  them 
of  ignorance,  presumption,  or  wickedness,  because  they  do  not 
hold  the  same  extreme  notion  of  the  functions  and  offices  of  the 
Church  of  England  which  he  is  pleased  to  entertain,  it  is  difficult 
to  treat  his  absurd  intolerance  with  common  courtesy.  In  his 
speculations  on  political  economy,  especially,  he  revels  in  all  the 
impertinence  of  ignorance,  and  wantons  in  helpless  and  hopeless 
fatuity.  He  has  discovered  that  it  is  a  sin  to  take  interest  en 
money,  and  has  made  a  masterly  assault  on  the  law  of  supply  and 
demand.  In  his  next  work  he  will  probably  take  ground  against 
the  attraction  of  gi-avitation.  The  only  allusion  he  makes  to  the 
United  States  is  quite  in  character;  he  speaks  pityingly  of  "that 
unhappy  coimtry."  He  did  not  probably  think,  at  the  time,  that 
\be  country  was  happy  in  possessing  persons  who  would  call  tor 
6te  editions  of  his  book,  and  that  oui-  tolerant   novel-readers 


400  APPENDIX. 

would  vouchsafe  to  it  the  same  attention  they  give  to  Harrison 
Ainsworth  and  George  Sand. 

Hawkstone  is  iutei-esting  in  one  respect,  as  it  exhibits  tlie  degree 
of  dogmatism  of  which  every  true  Englishman  is  capable,  and  in 
which  he  is  only  equalled  by  the  Russian  serf.  Education  seems 
to  work  but  little  change  in  him,  as  far  as  regards  the  solidity  of 
his  self-esteem,  though  it  may  mitigate  the  blindness  and  ferocity 
of  its  expression.  Here  is  a  man  having  all  the  characteristics 
of  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman,  whose  mind  from  early  youth  has 
been  trained  in  what  are  called  liberal  studies,  and  yet  he  has 
acquired  no  power  of  learning  from  other  minds,  no  toleration  for 
Avhat  he  considers  error,  no  comprehension  either  of  heart  or  head. 
It  is  true  that  this  bigotry  is  one  cause  of  England's  colossal 
power.  It  makes  every  man  self-sufficient,  places  him  in  a  surly 
antagonism  to  other  nations,  and  by  teaching  him  to  despise  for- 
eigners, stimulates  the  courage  by  which  he  is  enabled  to  violate 
their  rights.  The  moment  the  mind  of  the  nation  rose  from  ita 
local  ethics  to  general  principles  of  reason  or  morality,  its  man- 
ners and  institutions,  and  with  these  its  material  supremacy, 
would  pass  away. 

Very  different  from  Hawkstone,  both  in  style  and  opinion, 
are  the  sparkling  and  pungent  Bachelor  of  the  Albany,  and  The 
Falcon  Family.  Both  are  not  so  much  novels  as  dashing  essays 
on  Ufe  and  manners  cast  in  a  narrative  form ;  but  they  are  replete 
with  brilliant  common-sense,  and  the  interest  they  lack  in  regard 
to  events  and  characters  is  sujaplied  by  tlie  unilagging  vigor  and 
elastic  spring  of  the  style,  and  the  perpetual  sparkle  of  satire  and 
epigram.  The  author's  mind  preserves  that  due  balance  between 
sharpness  and  good-nature  which  is  the  condition  of  pleasantry, 
and  touches  in  a  light  and  graceful,  but  decisive  manner,  on  a 
hundred  topics,  without  exhausting  one.  His  style  is  strewn  with 
verl)al  felicities,  and  there  are  passages  exhibiting  one  continuous 
glitter  of  the  glancing  lights  of  fancy  and  wit.  Occasionally  a 
string  of  sentences  goes  off  in  epigrams,  one  sentence  after 
another,  like  a  series  of  pei"cussion-caps. 

The  author  is  a  sensible  but  superficial  English  whig,  and  like 
all  his  class,  whether  brilliant  or  stupid,  he  has  a  contempt  for  ex- 
Iremes,  without  uuderstaiiding  the  internal  causes  which  lead  men 
into  extremes.     The  most  exhilarating  portions  of  his  novels  ar« 


NOVELS    OF    THE    SEASON.  401 

those  in  which  he  subjects  the  pedantic  absui'dities  of  the  "  ear- 
nest" men  of  tlie  day  to  a  process  of  mcriy  caricature,  or  with  a 
few  probing  witticisms  emancipates  tlie  air  shut  up  in  a  political 
bubble.  He  takL'.s  life  himself  in  evident  good  humor,  and  is 
troubled  very  little  with  the  mysteries  of  his  nature  or  his  mission 
to  the  human  race.  He  does  not  appear  to  think  that  the  eyes  of 
the  world  are  upon  him,  or  that  his  utterance  of  an  axiom  is  to 
make  an  era  in  the  history  of  humanity.  But  it  must  be  admitted 
that  ia  avoiding  bathos  he  also  avoids  depth,  and  purchases  his 
persiflage  at  the  expense  of  all  serious  thought.  Life  with  him 
is  composed  of  two  portions,  a  portion  to  be  enjoyed  and  a  portion 
to  be  laughed  at,  and  with  this  comprehensive  philosophy  it  can- 
not be  expected  that  he  should  succeed  in  the  exhibition  of  charac- 
ter or  passion.  Most  of  his  personages  are  embodied  epigrams,  or 
rather  jokes  elevated  to  the  dignity  of  persons.  There  is  a  great 
difference  between  Ijeing  jocose  and  being  a  jest. 

In  Harold,  the  Last  of  the  Saxon  Kings,  Sir  Bulwer  Lytton  has 
attempted  an  historical  romance,  and  has  certainly  displayed 
scholarship,  research,  and  remarkable  talent,  in  the  undertaking. 
But  we  fear  that  the  work  derives  little  help  from  the  subject. 
The  author  is  master  of  a  style  which  is  singularly  attractive,  and 
contrives  to  give  a  degree  of  interest  to  everything  his  pen  touches, 
whether  he  treats  it  well  or  iU.  No  one  can  read  Harold  without 
feeling  the  force  of  this  charm,  but  we  think  it  is  less  felt  in  thia 
novel  than  in  manj'  of  his  less  ambitious  productions.  Neither  in 
Harold,  nor  in  The  Last  of  the  Barons,  does  he  evince  the  power 
of  a  great  historical  novelist.  The  great  defect  of  Harold,  espec- 
ially, is  its  heterogeneousness.  Fact  and  fiction  are  either  placed 
side  by  side  or  huddled  together,  instead  of  being  fused  into  one 
consistent  narrative.  Harold,  the  Saxon  king  of  history,  and 
Harold,  the  hero  of  Sir  Bulwer  Lytton's  romance,  so  modify  each 
other,  that  the  result  somcAvhat  resembles  j\Irs.  Malaprop's  Cerbe- 
rus,—  he  is  "two  gentlemen  at  once."  Indeed,  though  it  cannot 
be  said  that  the  author  is  devoid  of  imagination,  he  does  not 
possess  the  faculty  for  any  available  purpose  of  history  or  romance. 
As  he  unconsciously  blends  his  own  morbid  feelings  with  his 
representations,  he  cannot  vividly  reproduce  the  persons  and 
events  of  a  past  age  in  then-  original  life  and  coloring,  is  the 
historian  Thierry  has  done  in  his  Norman  Conquest ;  ant?  tliere- 
VOL.   II.  26 


4U2  APPEINJJtS.. 

fore,  though  his  imagination,  considered  separately,  may  be  largei 
than  that  of  many  graphic  and  picturesque  historians,  he  has  not 
in  any  degree  their  power  of  historical  imagination.  We  think 
that  this  will  be  evident  to  any  clear-headed  person  wh  i  will  take 
Harold  and  Duke  William  as  they  appear  in  the  charming  pages 
of  Thierry,  and  compare  them  with  the  same  princes  as  conceived 
hy  Sir  Bulwer  Lytton,  If  this  defect  in  regard  to  historical  per- 
sonages was  balanced  by  a  power  of  combining  the  elements  of 
human  nature  into  new  forms  of  character,  through  the  creative 
pi'ocesses  of  the  imagination,  he  might  still  be  a  great  novelist; 
but  in  this  respect,  also,  Bulwer  is  deficient.  Though  in  romance 
and  the  drama  the  poAver  of  creating  or  delineating  character 
supposes  a  healthy  mind,  gifted  with  a  sure  vision  of  external 
objects,  and  capable  of  a  quick  sympathy  with  opposite  natures, 
this  power  is  still  often  possessed  in  a  limited  degree  by  men  who 
can  create  original  characters,  but  are  incapable  of  reproducing 
real  persons.  In  Godwin's  Life  of  Chaucer,  and  in  his  historical 
productions  generally,  his  kings,  dukes,  barons,  and  rebels,  are  as 
dead  as  those  of  Mr.  Hallam ;  and  yet  the  power  of  vital  concep- 
tion cannot  be  denied  to  the  author  of  Caleb  Williams  and  St. 
Leon.  Though  a  creative  imagination  is  thus  sometimes  possessed 
by  persons  deficient  in  its  inferior  form  of  historical  resurrection, 
all  ample  minds  will  be  found  to  possess  both.  An  intellect 
thoroughly  alive  cannot  be  content  with  names  of  persons  or  with 
aggregates  of  abstract  qualities,  in  contemplating  either  actual  or 
jjossible  life,  but  by  its  very  nature  conceives  living  iDeings. 

Now,  we  must  profess  our  inability  to  discover  any  capacity  in 
Sir  Bulwer  Lytton  to  conceive  character  at  all.  With  considerable 
respect  for  his  talents  and  accomplisliments,  we  think  that  he 
always  fails  in  every  attempt  demanding  creative  energy  or  clear 
representation.  As  an  historical  novelist,  he  stands  half-way 
between  Scott  and  James,  between  truth  and  truism.  He  is  often 
faithful  to  the  external  fact,  but  never  penetrates  to  its  internal 
meaning.  The  readers  of  his  novels  are  made  acquainted  with  life 
and  character  m  the  past  or  present,  not  as  they  are  in  themselves, 
but  as  his  own  ingenious  and  brilliant,  but  morbid  and  discoloring 
mind,  has  conceived  them.  He  is  an  illustration  of  Kant's  theory, 
that  the  qualities  of  objects  are  not  perceive  1  by  the  mind,  but 
{)rojected  from  it ;  and  accordingly  all  his    »ovels,  whether  t.h« 


NOVELS    OF    THE    SEASON. 


403 


bero  he  Pelham  or  "Warwick,  Devereux  or  Harold,  leave  a  similar 
impression.  A  character  goes  into  Ma  head  as  Diike  TVilliam  or 
Lafranc,  but  it  ever  comes  out  Sir  Edwai-d  Bulwer  Lytton,  Burt. 
This  absence  of  objective  perception,  this  confinement  of  the 
mind  T\-ithin  itself,  is  not  only  fatal  to  Bulwer's  claims  to  dramatic 
delineation,  but  it  explains  the  sombre  and  unsatisfying  tone  of 
his  productions.  There  is  a  singular  lack  of  cheerfulness  in  his 
novels,  and  they  are  accordingly  read  without  any  refreshment  to 
the  intellect.  Compare  him  with  Fielding,  or  Goldsmith,  or  Scott, 
or  Dickens,  novelists  widely  differing  from  each  other,  and  it  AviU 
be  readily  seen  how  different  is  his  feverish  excitement  and  hectic 
flush  fi-om  theii-  healthy  and  bracing  tone.  After  reading  one  of 
Bulwer's  novels,  we  have  a  feeling  that  mankind  is  composed  of 
scoundrels  and  sentimentalists,  and  that  the  world  is  effete.  The 
atmosphere  is  that  of  a  hot-house,  not  the  exhilarating  breeze  of 
the  moors.  The  vices  of  the  novelist  have  that  character  of  sickly 
licentiousness  which  we  might  expect  fi'om  the  rhetorical  character 
of  his  vii-tues.  He  is  not  a  free-spoken  fellow  like  Fielding,  and 
in  his  whole  writings  there  is  not  one  burst  of  honest  and  hearty 
sensuality,  such  as  we  often  meet  in  the  author  of  Tom  Jones;  but 
instead  of  this  we  have  plentiful  quantities  of  the  "  self-improved 
morals  of  elegant  souls,"  in  which  adultery  and  seduction  are 
gracefully  adorned  in  alluring  sentiments,  and  saunter,  with  a 
mincing  gait,  to  the  pit  that  is  bottomless. 

In  Harold,  to  be  sure,  there  is  a  marked  improvement  in  our 
author's  literary  morals.  As  Thomas  Moore  wrote  pretty  little 
hymns  to  offset  his  pen's  eavly  peccadilloes,  so  Bulwer  ventures  in 
the  present  novel  on  Platonic  love  to  compensate  for  the  peculiar 
kind  of  passion  he  has  inculcated  Ln  other  novels.  It  must  be  de- 
lightful news  to  many  good  people,  that  the  author  of  Pelliam  and 
Paul  Clifford  has  sov.'n  his  Avild  oats,  and  now  ranks  "  in  the  first 
file  of  the  \'irtuous;"  and  as  he  formerly  seemed  to  object  to  mar- 
riage because  it  interfered  with  the  natural  rights  of  passion,  he 
now  has  no  other  quarrel  with  it  than  that  it  is  needless  to  the 
p\u-e  love  of  the  soul  The  lady  whom  history  pronounces  to  be 
Harold's  mistress  Bulwer  converts  into  the  object  of  Harold'3 
Bpirit  love,  while  he  follows  history  in  giving  Harold  a  wife,  but 
one  whom  he  marries  as  a  matter  of  state  convenience  and  policy 


404 


This  is  a  notable  reconciliation  of  the  conflicting  claims  of  earth 
and  heaven,  which  will  doubtless  much  edify  the  saints. 

There  are  two  besetting  peculiarities  of  Bulwer's  mind  which 
are  more  prominent,  perhaps,  in  Harold  than  in  any  other  of  hig 
novels.  These  are  an  affectation  of  philosophy,  and  an  affectation 
of  noble  sentiments.  By  the  former  we  do  not  mean  that  pervad- 
ing air  of  thoughtful  ennui  which  is  not  always  an  unpleasing 
characteristic  of  his  diction,  but  his  assiduous  personification 
of  absti'act  terms,  his  emphatic  mode  of  uttering  commonplaces, 
and  his  way  of  reaching  climaxes  in  dissertation  by  fiercely  print- 
ing axiomatic  phrases  in  capital  letters.  These  are  cheap  substi- 
tutes for  depth  of  thought,  but  to  us  they  are  moi-e  endurable  than 
his  substitutes  for  depth  of  feeling.  His  fine  sentiments  and 
delicate  emotions  can  hardly  impose  on  any  mind  which  has 
arrived  at  the  consciousness  of  sentiment  and  emotion,  or  under- 
stands the  difference  between  elegance  and  genuineness.  They 
are  the  cheap  manufactures  of  mere  rhetoric,  contrived  with 
malice  aforethought  to  awaken  the  reader's  admiration.  The 
heart  never  speaks  its  own  language  in  Bulwer's  writings.  No 
outbreak  of  genuine  passion  seizing  and  shaping  its  own  expres- 
sion, no  touch  of  humanity  Mling  from  the  pen  with  a  beautiful 
unconsciousness,  ever  surprise  and  delight  us  in  his  pages.  There 
is  one  infallible  test  of  a  man's  sincerity  which  Bulwer's  expression 
of  sensibility  cannot  stand  for  a  moment.  Natural  emotion  com- 
pels the  mind  to  lose  itself  for  the  time  in  the  objects  which  stir 
and  arouse  it.  Now,  Bulwer,  instead  of  celebrating  the  beauty  and 
grandeur  of  what  he  feels,  is  continually  celebrating  the  beauty 
and  grandeur  of  his  feelings.  This  is  the  exact  difference  between 
real  and  rhetorical  passion,  and  it  is  a  difference  of  some  moment. 

Indeed,  allowing  to  Bulwer  the  merit  of  wit,  fancy,  learning, 
an  ingenious  mechanical  apparatus  of  understanding,  and  consid- 
erable power  of  appropriation,  he  is  still,  in  all  that  relates  to  the 
living  movements  of  the  heart  and  brain,  the  most  superficial 
writer  that  ever  acquired  the  reputation  of  a  great  novelist.  As 
his  capacity,  such  as  it  is,  is  under  the  control  of  a  morbid  egotism 
and  a  still  more  morbid  vanity,  his  productions  appear  more  like 
the  consequences  of  intellectual  disease  than  like  intellectual  nutri 
ment.  Tliis  disease  is  as  regularly  taken  by  persons  at  a  certaij 
age  of  the  mind,  as  the  measles  are  at  a  certain  age  of  the  body 


i^OVELS    OF    THE    SEASON.  405 

If  Bulwerism,  however,  saves  any  intellect  from   Byroatsm,  it 

doubtless  has  its  uses.  The  varioloid  is  bad  in  itself,  but  it  is 
better  than  the  small-pox.  There  is,  strictly  speaking,  no  food 
for  the  mind  in  Bulwer,  bad  or  good  —  nothing  which  the  intellect 
can  assimilate.  With  Byron  it  is  different ;  the  great  English 
poet's  natality  may  be  the  vitality  of  poison,  but  it  is  still  life. 

We  cannot  pass  from  Bulwer  to  Lady  Georgiana  Fullerton  with- 
out taking  a  perilous  leap.  Grantley  Manor  is  a  novel  having  the 
rose-color  of  Young  England  and  the  purple  light  of  Puseyism  on 
its  pages,  and  doubtless  presents  a  very  one-sided  view  of  many 
important  matters  with  which  it  deals ;  but  it  evinces  talent  of  a 
very  high  order,  and  is  one  of  the  most  pleasing  novels  of  the  sea- 
son. The  author  is  perhaps  too  elaborate  in  her  diction,  and  is 
stirred  too  often  by  an  ambition  for  the  superfine,  to  catch  that 
flomng  feUcity  of  style  which  should  be  the  aim  of  the  novelist  — 
a  style  in  which  sentences  should  only  represent  thought  or  ftxct, 
and  never  dazzle  away  attention  from  the  matter  they  convey. 
But  with  some  faults  of  manner  and  someMundei-s  in  plot,  the 
novel  evinces  considerable  dramatic  power,  and  has  a  number  of 
strUiing  characters.  The  intei'est  is  well  sustained,  though 
rapidity  of  movement  in  the  story  is  ever  subsidiary  to  complete- 
ness of  delineation  in  the  characters.  Perhaps  the  chief  element 
in  the  plot,  and  the  source  of  all  the  agony  which  torments  the 
principal  personages,  is  too  provokingly  slight  to  be  strictly  prob- 
able; but  it  serves  its  purpose  of  developing  the  piety  of  Ginevi-a 
and  the  selfishness  of  Neville.  No  one  can  criticize  the  novel  with 
any  justice  to  the  writer,  without  keeping  constantly  in  mind  that 
her  object  is  not  so  much  a  consistent,  or  even  probable  story,  as  a 
forcible  and  subtile  representation  of  character,  as  influenced  by 
events  best  calculated  to  bring  out  all  its  hidden  virtues  or  vices. 
Thus,  Neville,  who  is  about  as  abject  a  combination  of  arrogance, 
selfisliness,  and  littleness  of  spirit,  as  ever  was  chosen  for  a  hero, 
would  probably  pass  in  ordinary  life  for  a  free,  hearty,  indepen 
dent,  and  high-toned  gentleman.  One  event  converts  him  into  a 
compendium  of  small  vices  such  as  Sir  Forcible  Feeble  himself 
might  hoot  at.  Besides,  his  degradation  was  necessary  to  bring 
out  all  the  resources  of  Ginevi'a's  nature,  and  it  is  but  common 
gallantry  tr  admit  the  right  of  a  lady  writer  to  abase  the  hen 
rather  than  the  heroine  when  it  is  necessary  to  degrade  either 


406  APPENDIX. 

Ginevra  is  an  original  and  beaiitiful  delineation,  the  fotmlation 
of  whose  character  is  imagination,  intensified  by  passion  and 
purified  by  religion.  So  fine  a  union  of  sensibility  and  fortitude, 
of  impulse  and  will,  is  a  rare  appearance  in  a  popular  novel. 
Margaret,  her  half-sister,  a  sweet,  good-natured  creature,  with  a 
magnanimous  superficiality  of  feeling,  is  well  conceived  and  sus- 
tained, though  the  wi'iter  ventures  on  some  perilous  edges  of  experi- 
ment in  her  case,  and  barely  saves  her,  in  two  or  three  instances, 
from  being  a  laUure.  Walter  is  genuine  and  manly  in  genera. 
Vvitli  an  occasional  touch  of  sickliness  and  feebleness.  Though  far 
from  being  a  lady's  man,  he  is  unmistakably  a  man  delineated 
by  a  lady.  Colonel  Leslie  is  a  bore  and  a  blunder.  Perhaps,  to 
those  who  appreciate  results  from  the  difficulties  in  the  way  of 
their  production,  the  delineation  of  the  amiable  but  commonplace 
old  people  of  the  novel  will  be  considered  a  great  proof  of  the 
writer's  skill  in  character.  It  evinces  much  of  the  shrewdness 
and  nicety  of  Miss  Austen  —  qualities  which  we  should  hardly 
expect  to  see  in  connection  with  so  strong  an  idealizing  tendency, 
and  with  so  much  passionateness. 

Vanity  Fair,  by  W.  M.  Thackeray,  one  of  the  most  brilliant  of 
English  magazine  writers,  is  an  attempt,  somewhat  after  the 
manner  of  Fielding,  to  represent  the  world  as  it  is,  especially  the 
selfish,  heartless,  and  cunning  portion  of  it.  The  author  has 
Fielding's  cosy  manner  of  talking  to  his  readers  in  the  pauses  of 
his  narrative,  and,  like  Fielding,  takes  his  personages  mostly  from 
ordinary  life.  The  novel,  though  it  touches  often  upon  topics 
which  have  been  worn  threadbare,  and  reproduces  many  common- 
place types  of  character,  is  still,  on  the  whole,  a  fresh  and  vigorous 
transcript  of  English  life,  and  has  numerous  profound  touches  of 
humanity  and  humor.  Sir  Pitt  Crawley,  coarse,  uneducated, 
sordid,  quarrelsome,  his  sharp,  narrow  mind  an  epitome  of  vulgar 
shrewdness,  is  a  sort  of  combination  of  Sir  John  Brute,  Sir  Tun- 
belly  Clumsey,  and  Squire  Western;  but  though  exceedingly 
ludicrous,  is  hardly  natural.  George  Osborne,  Dobbin,  and 
Amelia,  ai-e  characters  almost  literally  true,  and  are  developed 
with  most  consummate  skill  and  fidelity.  Mr.  Osborne,  we  fear 
is  too  fair  a  representative  of  the  English  man  of  business  of  the 
aiiddle  class,  —  selfish,  arrogant,  purse-proud,  cringing  to  superi. 
ors  and  ferocious  to  inferiors,  rejoicing  in  a  most  profound  iguo 


NOVELS  OF  THE  SEASON.  401 

ranee  of  his  own  meanness  and  cruelty,  and  ever  disposed  to  rise 
on  the  ruin  )f  his  neighbors.  That  disposition  in  English  society, 
of  every  class,  to  trample  on  the  one  immediately  beneath  it,  and 
to  fawn  on  the  one  immediately  above  it,  Thackeray  felicitously 
represents  in  this  and  other  characters  of  his  novel.  NotMng  can 
be  more  edifj-ing  than  Mr.  Osborne's  conversations  with  his  son 
George  on  his  Intimacy  with  men  of  rank  who  fleece  him  at  cards, 
and  on  his  duty  to  break  off  a  match  with  Amelia,  after  her  father 
has  become  banki-upt.  But  the  finest  character  in  the  whole  novel 
is  Miss  Rebecca  Sharp,  an  original  personage,  worthy  to  be  called 
the  author's  own,  and  as  true  to  life  as  hypoci'isy,  ability,  and 
cunning,  can  make  her.  She  is  altogether  the  most  impoitant 
person  in  the  work,  being  the  very  impersonation  of  talent,  tact, 
and  worldliness,  and  working  her  way  with  a  graceful  and  execu- 
tive impudence  unparalleled  among  managing  women.  She  infli- 
cates  the  extreme  point  of  worldly  success  to  which  these  qualities 
will  carry  a  person,  and  also  the  impossibility  of  their  providing 
against  all  contingencies  in  life.  Becky  steadily  rises  in  the  world, 
reaches  a  certain  height,  makes  one  inevitable  mistake,  and  then  as 
steadily  falls,  while  many  of  her  simple  companions,  whom  she 
despised  as  weaklings,  succeed  from  the  very  simplicity  with  which 
they  follow  the  instinctive  sagacity  of  pure  and  honest  feeling. 
Colonel  Rawdon  Crawley,  a  brainless  sensualist,  whom  Becky  mar- 
ries, and  in  some  degree  reforms,  but  who,  by  having  an  occasional 
twinkle  of  genuine  sentiment  in  his  heart,  always  was  her  superior, 
is  drawn  with  a  breadth  and  a  nicety  of  touch  which  are  rare  in 
such  delineations.  The  exact  amount  of  humanity  which  coexists 
with  his  i-ascality  and  stupidity,  is  given  with  perfect  accuracy. 
Old  Mr.  Sedley  is  a  most  truthful  representation  of  a  broken-down 
merchant,  conceived  in  the  spirit  of  that  humane  humor  which 
blends  the  ludicrous  and  the  pathetic  in  one.  Joe  Sedley,  the 
East  Indian,  slightly  suggests  Major  Bagstock.  He  has  the  Major's 
physical  circumference,  apoplectic  turn,  and  swell  of  manner,  with 
the  addition  of  Cockney  vulgarity  and  cowardice.  His  retreat  from 
Brussels,  just  before  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  is  described  with  the 
art  of  a  comic  Xenophon. 

Of  all  the  novels  on  our  list.  Vanity  Fair  is  the  only  one  in  which 
tlie  author  is  content  to  represent  actual  life.  His  page  swarma 
with  personages  whom  we  recognize  at  once  as  genuine.    It  is  also 


40S  APPENDIX. 

noticeable,  that  Thackeray  alone  preserves  himself  from  the  illusions 
of  misantlu-opy  and  sentimentality ;  and  though  dealing  with  a  host 
of  selfish  and  malicious  characters,  his  book  leaves  no  impression 
that  the  world  is  past  praying  for,  or  that  the  profligate  have  it. 
His  novel,  as  a  representation  of  life,  is  altogether  more  compre- 
hensive and  satisfying  than  either  of  the  others.  Each  may  excel 
him  in  some  particular  department  of  character  and  passion,  but 
each  is  confined  to  a  narrow  space,  and  discolors  or  shuts  out  the 
other  portions  of  existence.  Thackeray  looks  at  the  world  from  no 
exclusive  position,  and  his  view  accordingly  includes  a  superficial 
if  not  a  substantial  whole;  and  it  is  creditable  to  the  healthiness 
of  his  mind,  that  he  could  make  so  wide  a  survey  without  contract- 
ing either  of  the  opposite  diseases  of  misanthropy  or  worldliness 


THE    END. 


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